


Disconnect

by QueerCrusader



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Crack, Long-Distance Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Social Media, but overall this has a very light tone i promise, how else do I even tag this, influencer!John, with a light sprinkling of angst every now and then, yeah you read that right rip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25364686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCrusader/pseuds/QueerCrusader
Summary: John has an Instagram account. And it’s a fucking popular one too, he’s proud to admit. He hates the word influencer, but, yeah. He’s got 35,000 followers and has been sponsored twice. However, out of his 35k followers, there is only one he really speaks to: a certain@captainflint. He and Flint have never met in real life, but that doesn't stop John from falling head over heels. Is he in way over his head? Probably. Is he gonna stop self-indulging? Absolutely not. This can really only go a few ways...
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 179
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is for fetchphilipsarchive, who kindly requested this fic!! I hope it'll live up to your expectations. Head's up: this fic is being more or less uploaded as I'm writing it. I try to stay at least a chapter ahead, but I cannot promise a regular or swift upload schedule. Tags will be amended as I go. Side pairings will make an appearance too, including for our main characters, but I prefer to just tag the main pairing as to not confuse anyone looking for that particular tag. Anyway, I'm having fun with this, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> (PS: this is my first Black Sails fic. I beg you, be gentle with me. It's meant to be fun and lighthearted, so don't expect one of those poetic masterpieces that this fandom is riddled with. I'll work my way up to that haha)

“I’m gonna kill him,” John mutters to himself as he stares at his phone. “For real this time.” When he looks up, Toast is staring at him with unblinking eyes. John points at her with an accusing finger. “And if you tell him, I’m gonna…” He searches for words, but after a few seconds he just sighs.

“Who am I kidding, I can’t threaten a cat,” he mutters, rubbing his hand across his mouth. Toast hisses, grateful as ever for his mercy, before running out of his room. He quickly snaps a picture of her as she retreats, but it’s just a blurry image of half her ass. Maybe worth putting on his storyline, but not exactly worth its own post.

That is, when the fucking internet returns.

He gets up with a groan, his prosthetic digging into the muscles around his knee. He’s used to it, but today it’s acting up a little, the muscles cramping every now and then. With a bit of a limp he makes his way to his bedroom door and pokes his head out into the hallway.

“Randall?” he calls out. “Randall, you fucker, turn the Wi-Fi back on!”

“Food’s ready,” comes the only reply.

It’s about principle, really. He could use his data, of course, but he had been in the middle of a long, detailed comment on someone’s image. He didn’t realise he wasn’t connected to the internet until he pressed _post_ and the whole comment vanished into the fucking aether.

God, he needs a new roommate. Preferably one who doesn’t shut off the Wi-Fi whenever he wants John’s attention.

John has an Instagram account. And it’s a fucking popular one too, he’s proud to admit. After all, he’s not bad-looking. Charismatic, too. And he knows it. He’s halfway to making a living out of it. He hates the word _influencer_ , but, yeah. He’s got 35,000 followers and has been sponsored twice.

Tonight, thankfully, that doesn’t matter. As good as he might be at standing in the spotlight, he’s not always overly fond of it. Tonight, he gets to forget about his fame for a moment and go work at his actual job. It’s not glamorous, but he’s vaguely sentimental of it, especially with the whole influencer thing taking off. He’d like to hold on to any semblance of a normal life while it lasts.

After dinner, he quickly puts on an old T-shirt that says _Disney Princess_ and grabs his apron before putting on his leather jacket to cover the ridiculous outfit. “I’m off to work, Randall,” he calls as he rushes out the door. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“Say hi,” the answer comes, paired with a meow more befitting of someone who has smoked ten packs a day for the past twenty years than of a eight-year-old cat. John shakes his head, some of his loose curls falling into his eyes, before pulling the door closed behind him.

Randall was the one who got him the job at the old _Beached Walrus_ diner, where they both work in the kitchen on alternating shifts. Randall really ought to have been fired years ago, but the nice thing about the _Walrus_ is that everyone there is really very loyal. So even when John is a little shit, even when he got accused of stealing from the till once, and even after the accident a year back, the _Walrus_ kept him on. He will forever be grateful to them for that.

The night shift is quiet today; it is a Tuesday, and John has found that with most of the crowd made up of other night workers or students on a bender, it is in fact the weekends to look out for. During the week, he’ll get maintenance crews and nurses, who are all relatively friendly. On Fridays and Saturdays, he gets the shifts from hell. It really is a miracle he hasn’t tried to shove an improvised kebab down a doped-out jock’s throat yet.

When his shift finally ends at about six in the morning, he posts an exhausted selfie, to which he gets the usual mix of replies full of support, worry for him still being up, and thirst. The first fifty are usually some variation of _LOVE YOU_ or _KING_. He’s used to it by now. But there’s one notification, one comment he’s looking for. He knows it won’t show up instantly, but he glances at his phone every once in a while on the bus home, just to be sure.

It pops up just as he makes his way back into the flat at seven.

_@captainflint: go the fuck to bed_

John beams through his exhaustion. He quickly likes the comment, not bothering to type out a reply. Usually he’d go for something dumb like a winking emoji and a _yes captain, sir_ , but he’s tired and his left thigh is cramping like mad, so he leaves it at that. Instead he quickly fills up the bath, just as he hears Randall stir in his own room. He quickly puts the guy’s shaving equipment and toothbrush out in the hall so he can get ready in the kitchen.

“Sorry buddy, but this is an emergency,” he mutters before locking the bathroom door. As he pulls off the now grime-covered _Disney Princess_ shirt, he spots movement. He freezes, before realising what he’s seeing is Toast. She’s hopped from her litterbox onto the closed toilet lid, now staring at him with obvious cat judgement.

He stares her down for a moment, but then comes to the conclusion that no, he’d really rather not expose his genitals in a confined space with her. He lets out a long-suffering sigh and opens the door for her, through which she quietly slips out to go shower Randall with love. At least she’s cooperating today.

After the bath it’s time for bed, and tomorrow it’s time to do it all again.

_~oO0OoO0OoO0O~_

John started following @captainflint way back when he started working at the _Walrus_. Billy had helped him set up his Instagram account and had even added some accounts for John to follow, mostly of friends. Flint was an old boss of the _Walrus_ and most of the current staff still tried to keep in touch with him, so it had been pure impulse on Billy’s part, even though John and Flint didn’t know each other.

Since then, John’s account has only grown, but he still keeps an eye out for Flint’s username to pop up in his notifications. He’s not sure why the man followed him back. Maybe Billy told him to. Maybe Flint is just one of those follow for follow type of guys, though part of John doubts that; Flint doesn’t follow many people, nor does he have a lot of followers himself.

His account is in fact _very_ different from John’s. It is public, but barely has any engagement. Flint rarely posts; most of what he does post are images of the ocean, with the occasional image of himself with some people who John imagines to be his friends. His posts either have the sparsest of descriptions, or deep, philosophical notes that almost read like a diary entry. Those especially get no engagement, so John took it upon himself to like those posts whenever they popped up – not so much out of pity as much as to encourage Flint to post more. The notes fascinate him. And rather than comment, which felt tacky, he instead turned to Flint’s DMs to talk to him about the points and thoughts he divulges in. He’s now had several deep conversations with a man he has never met before.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know Flint, though. Part of him feels like he knows the man intimately, and if he’s honest, it kind of terrifies him. After all, _he has never met the man._ He doesn’t even know his real name, never thought to ask, then felt like he’d left it too long and could no longer ask without making himself look like an idiot. Not that he usually has many qualms with that, but he usually does purposefully to mask that he is, in fact, not an idiot. At least, that’s what he likes to think. He’s been wrong before, though.

But Flint. God, _Flint_. It started as literally nothing, curiosity, intrigue in a man who was willing to spill his most inner thoughts on a small corner of the very public internet, and it has since grown into a not-so-small obsession. John either posts or puts something on his story daily, and the only thing he ever looks for anymore is the notification that Flint has seen it, has noticed him, has something to say. They’ve grown into a form of friends, he thinks, but it’s hard to say. What he does know is that they interact in some way – through likes, comments, or conversations – on a near daily basis. If a day goes by without Flint in it, John gets antsy.

It’s a problem, really.

And the problem becomes only more complex with the fact that Flint is, in fact, _stunning_. He’s clearly older, looks like a rough man and rarely truly smiles in his pictures, but John likes that. Loves it, really. Loves the way the sun bounces off his red hair, highlighting the gold in it. Loves the detail of his freckles which seem to cover him everywhere. He’s even noticed the slight heterochromia Flint seems to have; one eye green, the other more blue. He’s definitely spent too many hours soaking up Flint’s face through his little screen.

But the thought of meeting him petrifies him.

Not because he thinks Flint will be a disappointment. He knows instinctively that if they were to ever meet, they’d likely speak for hours on end, perhaps even share some deep, satiated silences, filled with comfort in the knowledge that sometimes, the only thing that matters is being in someone’s presence. God, he hopes that that’s how it would go were it ever to happen.

No. John doesn’t think Flint will disappoint – apart from perhaps the fact that Flint might be completely and utterly straight, or worse, not interested. What scares him is being a disappointment himself.

John is a charming fucker and he knows it. But that means that he talks, and he talks a _lot_. Too much, probably. It usually leads to the point where he’s declared a troublesome little shit with a whole lotta mouth, or where he’s manipulated the conversation or even the person he’s talking to. He’s good at it; too good. It goes almost automatically, something he sometimes considers a bit of a sickness. He’s smart, even charismatic, but he doesn’t exactly consider himself _likeable_.

And then there’s the leg.

He knows being… _disabled_ as an influencer is a good look. It builds a platform, shows resilience or whatever. But ever since the incident that lost him the limb just over a year ago, he hasn’t actually posted anything about it on social media. His following was far smaller then, and the few people that were even remotely curious as to what had happened to have him vanish off the face of the internet for a solid eight weeks hadn’t gotten the truth from him. He’d simply written it off as needing a break from everything.

He just couldn’t bring himself to post anything about it. The mere thought now of telling the 35,000 strangers following him that he’s missing a limb nauseates him, fills him with anxiety. Instead, he pretends the world is turning as normal. He’s normal, he’s strong, he’s just like everyone else – just better-looking, of course. _Winky-face_.

As soon as he thinks the offensive words, he purposefully bumps his head against the wall. “I hate myself,” he mutters with a forced little laugh.

_Right_ , he thinks instead to distract himself from his mind’s intrusive stupidity, _let’s get up, shall we?_

It’s two in the afternoon, but that’s pretty usual for a weekday due to his nightshifts. He takes a quick selfie in bed that turns out to not be nearly as quick as he’d like – there is some posing involved, including the fanning of his long curls around his head like a halo across his pillow, as well as figuring out the perfect ratio of skin versus blanket. Are male nipples allowed on Instagram? He’s pretty sure they are, though he has complained about the injustice of the discrimination against women on this point (tactfully, of course).

_Good morning, internet :) Much as I’d like to stay right here where it’s cosy, I should probably get a move-on. Tragic, I know. Let’s face this day together! #iwokeuplikethis #graveyardshift_

Not his best caption, but he’s wasted enough time on the fucking pose already. He needs to get some breakfast in him and a quick round at the gym. He’s found exercise to be the best remedy for a sore leg. Not to mention that it seems to be a lovely day outside, and he hates sleeping through it all. Luckily, it’s summer, and the days last long enough for him to get a chance to enjoy it.

He’s in the middle of drinking his breakfast smoothie when his screen lights up with the much-anticipated notification.

_@captainflint: that’s an awful lot of nipple, Silver_

John nearly chokes, but he quickly scrambles to type a reply.

_@longsilver: @captainflint only the regular two, or did I miss something? Two is still the human standard, right?_

The comment is soon flooded, mostly with incomprehensible keyboard smashes or witty replies, including a slightly concerning amount of people telling him that he in fact definitely has an abnormal growth on his chest and people either have only the one nipple or none (he’s told to look to anime for proof on that). There are also quite a few comments drawing conclusions as per usual to who Flint is to John. Some people have taken to shipping them, though not many actually follow Flint, considering how bare his account is. It’s another reason for John to never actually comment on Flint’s posts, but instead just talk to him in his DMs. He doesn’t want to stoke that particular fire any further – at least, not on Flint’s account. He can be as flippant and playful on his own account, it’s part of who he is. Flint’s account is… too sincere. Too raw.

But _Jesus_ , he thinks as he scrolls to find Flint’s message again.

_That’s an awful lot of nipple, Silver_

He stares at it for a moment, the tips of his ears red, before he takes a cropped screenshot.

God, he’s weak.

He quickly heads to the tiny local gym, decidedly not checking his phone until he’s dripping with sweat an hour later. When he pulls the device out of his locker, his heartrate picks up a little.

_@captainflint: you manage to get some sleep then?_

John stares at the private message, a smile tugging at his lips. He likes the days when Flint is the first to talk, breaking the ice with polite niceties. It makes him feel at least a little wanted, like this isn’t just some pathetic one-sided thing.

_@longsilver: just about, yeah. guessing you’ve been up far longer?_

_@captainflint: …_

_@captainflint: Silver_

John stares at the message for a second, brow furrowed, before it hits him that Flint literally commented on his post at seven in the morning.

_@longsilver: shut up, that was yesterday for me. your morning is my 2pm_

_@captainflint: I’m in awe of your watertight logic._

Sarcastic bastard. John snorts, pocketing the phone. He knows he’s in deep, he knows he’s an idiot who should be far too old for a crush, especially on some invisible person on the internet. But he’s also indulgent and with very little impulse control, so as long as Flint is going to keep messaging him, he’s going to take as much from it as he can get.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes again, and he frowns. Maybe one of his other friends? But no, it’s Flint again. Which is strange; this was the type of conversation that usually dries up after about five interactions. He quickly opens it, and nearly walks into the gym’s glass door as he exits the building.

_@captainflint: I don’t think I’ve ever asked you your name_

Shit. _Abort, abort_ , all John’s senses say. It’s one thing to debate the meaning of life or the social injustices perpetuated by the British Museum, but this? This is personal on the simplest of levels. And God, it’s the perfect in for John to ask Flint the same thing, but maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe this is a step too close to actually starting to know each other, and all the dangerous implications that brings.

_@longsilver: John_

He stares at his screen and his own treacherous fingers. _Ah, fuck._

_@captainflint: James_

_@captainflint: It’s a pleasure to meet you, John._

John leaves him on read.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I uploading this way before chapter 3 is even done? Yes I am. Does this mean I'm catching up on myself? You betcha. But god I'm having a rough fucking day and you guys were absolute ANGELS over chapter 1, and I just wanna say, I fucking love you all. Your comments made my day. So this is a) some self-indulgence to feel less like I was steamrolled by a freight train and b) to reward u all for being way too fucking nice and supportive. Seriously, I love you all.
> 
> PS: this may mean that it'll take a little longer for chapter 3 to be posted. There is no rhyme or reason to my schedule, only escapism from crippling anxiety.
> 
> PPS: brief Madi/Silver, hope y'all don't mind

They don’t talk for three days after that.

Flint – John refuses to think of him as _James_ – leaves him be, and he’s grateful for it. But he’s also fucking _itching_ to grab his phone every five minutes, check his messages, his notifications, something, _anything_. Flint still likes his daily posts, but there are no comments. Again, John is grateful for the respectful distance, but also, who is he kidding? No he fucking isn’t. “Fucking talk to me!” he yells at his phone at some point, blatantly ignoring the fact that he too has opposable thumbs and can send a simple fucking message.

But John is stubborn. And so the silence continues.

Randall has picked up on John’s mood too, and has been shutting off the Wi-Fi at more regular intervals like the bastard that he is. John’s tried to explain to him that he needs the Wi-Fi to be reliable, can’t just have his internet shut off every other second, but Randall just snorted in response, so John’s ended up simply putting his phone to 4G for the time being.

By day four, even DeGroot has picked up that something is off with John. He ends up putting John on the fucking dishes at the _Walrus_ , where he’s nice and far away from the customers.

“I must be in a truly insufferable mood if even DeGroot thinks I’m bad for business,” John complains to Billy, who snorts.

“Oh you definitely are,” he retorts, which, wow. “Seriously, John, what’s crawled up your ass?”

“My bet is on abstinence,” Max drawls as she waltzes into the kitchen with a couple of empty plates, which she promptly dumps in the sink to splash John with soapy water. He splutters indignantly, but she ignores him. “A good fuck should set him straight.”

“That _is_ a point,” Billy notes, trying to hide his laughter. “When is the last time you got laid?”

“Shut up, I get plenty of action!” John protests. He quickly flicks some bubbles at Max, but she dodges him expertly, sticking out her tongue as she goes back to serve more customers. “Girls love me!”

“Uh-huh,” Billy nods as he moves to pick up the next order. “Drooling fans leaving thirst comments doesn’t count.”

“Oh, get fucked,” John retorts intelligently, but it’s playful, with no real edge.

“No _you_ ,” Billy replies, “ _please_. We’re all begging you.”

Much as John hates to admit, his friends aren’t entirely wrong. The last time he’d been with someone was with Max, before his accident. She’d come out as gay not much later, which hadn’t exactly done wonders for his confidence – though she had ensured him it had nothing to do with him or their time together. He lets out a frustrated groan, resting his head against the tap hanging over the sink. “I’m such a fucking loser,” he tells the polished chrome. It mercifully doesn’t reply.

“You know what,” Billy says as he comes back into the kitchen to pick up another order, “you’re off tomorrow, right? Why don’t we hit a bar? I’ll be your wingman, you can find someone and get whatever this bullshit is out of your system. How’s that?”

John laughs. “It has been a while since I’ve gone out,” he admits. “You know what, sure. A couple of drinks sounds good. Ask some others too, let’s make it a night.”

The following evening, John finds himself in the _Tall Order_ with Billy, Max, Max’s girlfriend Anne, Dooley, and Ben. The atmosphere between them is nice; it’s been a while since any of them have done this, especially as a group. If John lingers too long on it, he’ll realise exactly since when – he’s not exactly been social outside of his online activity since the loss of his leg, pouring more energy into his Instagram instead. It’s been easier that way; in that world, he still has all four of his limbs. In this world, the real one, he’s picked up nightshifts, avoiding the eyes of strangers and the pressure of spending free days with people. But now that he’s out at the pub, he has to admit that he’s missed this.

Max buys them a round of shots, which they toss back with enthusiasm. The burn of the alcohol seeps down his throat, dissipating into his veins with a satisfying hum. He can only hear about half of what his friends are saying at any given time, but he doesn’t mind. He laughs with them, joins them in mocking DeGroot’s serious demeanour, even takes Max for a spin when a good song comes on, to the indignance of the other patrons.

That last one might have been a bit of a mistake, he realises when he joins his friends again, breathless and lightheaded with drink. He’s gonna feel his leg in the morning, and it’ll hurt like a bitch. Right now however, he couldn’t care less.

“Hey, John!” Ben calls over the music. “I think someone’s got her eye on you!”

John tries to follow Ben’s gaze, and it lands on a stunning black woman sitting a little further down the bar. Her eyes are indeed trained on him, and when she notices him watching, she doesn’t turn away, smiling instead. _Huh_. John’s mildly impressed. He lifts his glass at her, and her smile widens. She nods once in silent greeting.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, ladies…” His friends hoot as he makes his way over to her, but he does his best to ignore them.

“Can we get the lady a top-up?” he asks the bartender, who graciously complies and pours straight rum into a fresh glass. Nice.

“John,” he tells her after handing over the money. She smiles again.

“Madi,” she replies. “I must say, your friends are lucky to have a dance partner like you.”

John snorts. “That’s about the biggest lie I ever heard, but I’ll take it,” he replies with a laugh.

Madi is not just someone who can hold her liquor, it seems. She’s clever and opinionated, and though it’s tough to make out what she’s saying over the music at times, John gladly tries. They talk, and laugh, and drink. He even admits to her that he’s a vapid narcissist with a growing Instagram account, because apparently he likes to embarrass himself. But she doesn’t mock him, doesn’t get up and leave, nor does she ask for is username. Instead she laughs, mostly just curious what it means for his connections to people. She doesn’t mind when he remembers he wants to make a quick post, using one of the pictures Ben took of the group earlier with John’s phone.

He tells her a little about it, only lingering on the topic briefly, but when she asks about how he could possibly feel connected to so many strangers, John’s mind wanders to Flint, and he winces. He’d hoped that Madi could distract him from just those thoughts, but here Flint is, appearing in the conversation like a phantom, haunting John when he least wants it.

He quickly manages to stir the conversation in another direction, and Madi lets him, thankfully. He might not have ruined his chances with her entirely.

When they leave the bar together, he quickly waves his friends goodbye, who all whoop again. He shakes his head with a laugh, the movement causing him to stumble a little. Maybe he’s had more alcohol than he thought. Madi graciously doesn’t comment though, seeming equally pleased with the developments. They walk to her place together, John refusing to bring anyone to his own flat when Randall or Toast are present. When they reach her front door, they come to a halt. She smiles.

“Thank you,” she says.

“What for?”

“Your company?” she replies with a shrug. “Walking me home? Take your pick. I had a good time.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, his gaze quickly flitting down to her lips. “Me too.”

He leans in, ever so carefully, and her smile widens. There is nothing coy about her; she wants this, and is happy not to play around. When she bridges the gap and presses her lips against his, he lets out a soft little sigh.

She really is beautiful, he thinks as he yields to her, letting her deepen the kiss. Not just physically, but personality-wise too. She’s sharp and bold, curious and unafraid to take what she wants. He smiles against her mouth as her hands come up to tangle in his curls.

“Shall we continue upstairs?” he asks, emboldened by the alcohol, and she grins.

“If you insist.”

She leads the way into her flat, the pair stumbling over some scattered shoes in the darkened hallway. She lets out a startled laugh, quickly hushing herself. John doesn’t know if she lives with someone or if she simply feels compelled by some instinct to be quiet in the dark, but he follows her example, remaining as silent as possible as they fumble their way into her bedroom. John presses his mouth against any bit of skin he can get access to, and Madi huffs.

“Ticklish?” he whispers against her neck. She stills for a moment before replying.

“No.”

He feels a wicked grin curving his mouth, and she squirms a little as it causes his stubble to brush against her skin. He laughs, quickly closing the bedroom door behind them. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers, but he ignores her threat and goes for a full-frontal attack. With a shrill laugh, so unlike what he’s seen of her so far, she veers away. They awkwardly fall onto the bed together, laughing as they wrestle. John revels in the softness of her skin, the curves he runs his hands over, the bright sparkle in her eyes.

They eventually tire out a little, both panting breathlessly. John is looming over Madi, knees planted firmly on either side of her hips. His shirt is already off while she still wears her bra. In the dark of the room, the only light comes from the moon peeking through the blinds. It casts a soft, silver hue across her skin. She looks ethereal, and John leans in to taste the glow.

Beside him, his phone screen lights up.

He closes his eyes, a sense of defeat washing over him. He was so close. Madi smiles up at him, taking his phone and placing it screen-down on her nightstand, before pulling him in.

“Ignore it,” she mutters in his ear, guiding his hand to her hip to help her hike up her skirt. “Ignore it.”

But try as he might, John can’t quite put it out of his mind. He knows it means he’s had a notification, and there’s very few people he’s got notifications turned on for. He can almost instinctively guess who lit up his screen, and he currently vehemently resents him for it.

After that, his heart is just not really in it anymore. Madi seems to notice it too. She places a hand on his face, gently brushing her thumb against his jawline. “If you’re not gonna be here, I might as well be doing this by myself,” she tells him. “And that’s not what I brought you home for.”

He drops face-first onto her duvet with a groan. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, his words muffled in the fabric. “It’s not you, I promise. God, trust me, it’s not.”

“Oh, I know it’s not,” she says, a hint of playful smugness in her voice, and he snorts.

“So, who is it?” Madi asks, her tone shifting become more careful. “Ex-lover? Am I a rebound?”

“Jesus, no,” John is quick to reply. “Look at you, you’re so much better than that. I mean,” he rolls over a little so he can look up at her, his cheeks flushed, “I don’t know you that well yet, but I can tell that you are _not_ rebound material.”

“So what then?”

And Christ, what can he say to that? How could he possibly explain who Flint is to him? He barely knows. _A friend_ , he thinks, but that would be a lie. A crush? Awkward, embarrassing. Not to mention that he’s barely come to terms with his sexuality yet, and he’s certainly not about to divulge about it to an essential stranger, even less to the woman he’s trying to get in bed with. He groans again.

“It’s complicated,” he mutters once again into the duvet. Madi smacks his ass at that, eliciting an indignant little yelp from him.

“‘It’s not you, it’s me’, ‘it’s complicated’… When I chatted you up in that bar I did not expect you to be this full of clichés,” Madi tells him, and he can tell she’s getting annoyed. Rightfully so, he supposes. She shifts beside him, and when he looks up, he sees her putting her shirt back on. _Shit_.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m sorry, okay? I was hoping to just have a good night, and I kinda cocked it up.” She raises her eyebrow as if to say, _kinda?_ He lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “This one’s on me. But before I became a hot mess, I genuinely had a good time with you.” He sits up and reaches for her arm, gently wrapping his fingers around it to still her. “Maybe we will try this again at some point, maybe not, but I feel like we could at the very least try to become friends.”

She looks at him, contemplating for a moment, before sighing. “Fine, I’ll give you my number,” she says, a hint of a smile finally ghosting the curve of her lips. “But you need to promise me that you sort your shit out before you try to get in my knickers again. I don’t ask much of my partners, I don’t need to marry them, but the least I’d like for them to actually be present when we have sex.”

He laughs. “I promise,” he tells her. “Thank you, Madi. Contrary to what this looks like, I did, in fact, enjoy myself.”

“And now you must leave me hanging,” she sighs mock-wistfully. “Whatever will I do with myself?”

“You seem creative,” he smirks before pressing a quick kiss against her lips. “I’m sure you can think of something.”

* * *

As amicably as he left the situation, he feels immeasurably frustrated by the time he gets home. The alcohol is still buzzing faintly in his veins, muddling his thoughts and motives. He opens his phone to find that the notification he got in the middle of the night was indeed of Flint uploading a post.

He stares at his screen for a good while. Flint was having a drink too, it seems, though not at a bar. He seems to be on the beach, and John wonders if perhaps he lives there, given how often he seems to be spending time by the ocean. His face is lit up by the warm glow of a bonfire, a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers. Another man, older, bald but with impressive sideburns and a moustache, has his arm flung around Flint’s shoulders, pulling him in to press a kiss against Flint’s cheek. Both men are laughing, Flint’s gaze almost bashfully trained on the fire. The caption reads:

_happy birthday to me_

Before he knows it, he’s in Flint’s DMs again. He intends to type _happy birthday_ , but finds his drunk fingers betraying him yet again.

_@longsilver: i hate you_

_@captainflint: …i’ll stick to Silver then, shall i?_

John stares for a moment before realising that their last interaction had been learning each other’s first names. He feels like a dick, but then, Flint is a _pain_ who managed to cock-block him.

Except Flint doesn’t know that, has absolutely no idea what he’s done wrong, and John probably just ruined his birthday.

_@longsilver: i mean, whatever you want really is fine_

_@captainflint: so are we on a first-name basis or no?_

_@longsilver: please ignore me, im drunk and an idiot_

_@longsilver: happy birthday btw_

_@captainflint: thank you <3_

Okay, _now_ John is staring. A heart? A fucking _heart_? What is he even meant to do with that? But it seems Flint is equally aware of how out of character that seems.

_@captainflint: …i can’t edit that out can i_

_@longsilver: dont think so. you can delete it tho_

_@captainflint: any point in pretending you didn’t see it?_

_@longsilver: ill do my best but no guarantees_

_@captainflint: well that’s fucking useless_

_@longsilver: youre welcome_

He takes a quick screenshot before the message is gone.

_@longsilver: nice pic btw_

John feels like he’s venturing further and further into unfamiliar territory. He usually doesn’t comment on the images, sticking to discussing the captions instead. But tonight seems to be a night for firsts; the first time since his accident that he’s gone home with someone, the first time he’s been turned down, and now this. He stares at the three dots indicating that Flint is typing, anxiously waiting for the answer.

_@captainflint: it was a good night_

_@longsilver: the other guy a friend?_

_@captainflint: i suppose you could call him as much. just don’t tell him i said that. he’ll get disgustingly smug. i’ve lasted 20 years pretending i don’t know him, i’d like to keep it up_

John lets out a startled little laugh at that. Jesus, twenty years? He’s never had a friend for that long. He’s pretty sure there’s no-one in his life right now who he’s even known that long, let alone can call a friend.

_@longsilver: 20?? no wonder you guys seem close_

It hits him suddenly that Flint hasn’t said anything that could indicate the man to be anything _more_ than a friend. _Twenty years_ , he thinks, and he goes back to the image. Flint’s smile is not huge, but it certainly is beautiful. He wonders.

_@captainflint: trust me, it’s all an illusion_

_@captainflint: what about you? good night?_

John snorts.

_@longsilver: yeah, been a while since ive gone out with friends_

He thinks for a moment. Thinks back to the image of Flint with a stranger’s arm around his shoulders, and how the image causes John’s insides to writhe with an emotion he can’t, _won’t_ , quite name. Again, he finds his fingers move without his permission.

_@longsilver: even managed to score_

It’s a fucking lie, but Flint doesn’t need to know the ins and outs of it. All he needs to know is that John is wanted.

Flint doesn’t answer, and for a gruelling moment, John is convinced he made a colossal mistake. The words he’s typed suddenly seem crude, childish. He knows Flint is a bit older, can tell from the photos, but it’s never really hit him until now. He feels his face burn.

_@captainflint: and they don’t mind you texting a stranger in the dead of night as they’re trying to sleep?_

Oh. _Oh._ Of course Flint would think he’s still at Madi’s place. Though he’s not entirely sure what makes Flint think he’s so good as to bring multiple partners home… Until it hits him that Flint is being gender-neutral rather than pleural.

_Huh._

He’s not sure what to make of that. It means Flint is progressive, at least, open to the thought of John being into more than just women. Perhaps it’s based on experience, but that would be wishful thinking, so John squashes the thought. Instead, he replies with another lie.

_@longsilver: fast asleep, thankfully_

_@captainflint: perhaps we should follow their example_

_@longsilver: perhaps_

He can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. He’d hoped for more, to get a rile out of Flint, something, anything. He’s not sure what he expected to happen, but this feels… anticlimactic.

_@captainflint: what did i do by the way to warrant your hate? still not clear on that_

Ah, shit. Yeah, there’s that. Maybe this is the in John is looking for, a lifeline to keep the conversation going. He smiles despite himself.

_@longsilver: not important. i just talk shit when im drunk_

_@captainflint: i’m drunk too, you don’t see me being rude_

Oh. Flint is drunk. That… that could be interesting. It explains the heart at the very least, and the lazier-than-usual grammar.

_@longsilver: trust me, if i actually hated you i definitely wouldnt be saying it_

_@captainflint: glad to know i can trust you to be honest_

John is sure Flint can’t possibly know how sore of a point he’s just struck. He swallows thickly, desperately to move on from the little comment, no matter how lightly it was made.

_@longsilver: hey, can i ask you something?_

_@captainflint: i suppose_

He stares at his screen. He honestly has no idea what to ask; he mostly just said it to keep the conversation going. Now he finds himself at a loss for words.

_@longsilver: if a woman tells you youre ‘not there’, what do you think it means?_

_@captainflint: well, i sincerely hope she didn’t say it during sex_

It’s the first time he’s ever seen Flint use that word, and it seems to cause his brain to short-circuit. _Sex_. What a simple fucking word. He really is pathetic.

_@longsilver: just help me out here_

_@captainflint: sounds like your heart wasn’t in it. distracted, were you?_

_@longsilver: maybe_

_@captainflint: do I want to know?_

_@longsilver: …maybe not_

_@captainflint: you’re a fucking disaster, Silver_

John smiles at that.

_@longsilver: like you wouldnt believe_

_@captainflint: i’m surprised she let you stick around then if that’s the feedback you got_

No more gender-neutral noun, John realises, and he winces a little. He did kind of give the game away by saying it was a woman.

_@longsilver: what can i say, im good company_

_@captainflint: even when you’re ‘not there’?_

_Shit_. Okay, so maybe John has properly given himself away here. Part of him wants to keep up the lie, too far in now to turn back, but that would mean saying something cringy like that he tired her out or something equally horrible. Flint’s always been nothing but honest with him, even when the truth is cloaked with dripping sarcasm. He kind of deserves to be treated the same, John decides with a frustrated sigh.

_@longsilver: fine, so im not actually there_

_@captainflint: yes, that much is clear_

_@longsilver: physically i mean_

_@captainflint: and you still managed to ‘score’? now i’m truly impressed_

John wants to grit his teeth. Flint is being a little shit, baiting him in a way John can’t resist.

_@longsilver: what, you don’t think i could do it?_

_@captainflint: get someone off through messages? we’ve had some interesting conversations, Silver, but that’s a different skill entirely_

_Jesus fuck._ Is Flint… actually telling him to talk dirty to him? John suddenly feels his palms starting to sweat, his face heating. But Flint is pushing him, challenging him, and though a part of him wants to flee the situation, he just cannot help but rise to take the bait.

_@longsilver: try me._

His heart is hammering in his chest. He feels the adrenaline coursing through him, watches the three dots, waits for Flint to respond, to tell him what to do.

They falter for a moment.

And they don’t reappear.

John stares at his screen for a solid ten minutes before he has to acknowledge the truth; Flint has left him hanging. Part of him thinks he deserves it for doing the same a mere three days earlier, but this somehow seems infinitely crueller. He wonders what he did wrong; Flint had been the one baiting for it, hadn’t he? Or maybe he’d been messing about. Maybe he’s straight after all, or in a committed relationship with the bald guy ( _really, what a fucking waste that would be_ , John thinks) and he suddenly realised what a colossal mistake this all was. Whatever it is, he’s gone, and John feels oddly, terrifyingly hollow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, thank you so much for the continuing love. I try to reply to as many comments as possible, but at some point it becomes just a lot of _alkfjdha thank you_ s. I love u all, and as a result, I already have a chapter update. More Madi love incoming because she holds the braincell most of the time anyway, and some more feelings. (For those of you saying this is all very relatable btw, I'm right there with you haha. It's the curse of our generation to have access to people across the world and fall for someone on the internet, RIP)

When he returns to work the next night, Billy is baffled.

“How did your mood possibly get _worse_?” he asks. “I thought you scored. Did something go wrong?”

“Was it the leg?” Ben asks, and this time John actually snaps, causing a huge scene in the kitchen until DeGroot barges in and puts him in fucking timeout in the pantry. There John stays until he’s peeled the required amount of potatoes, the required amount apparently being “whenever I fucking tell you it’s enough”. When he gets home, he is sweaty, exhausted, callused, and smells strongly of raw potatoes. Toast meows at him in her gravelly smoker’s voice when he gets in, quickly running off to complain to Randall.

“Oh yes, you have every right to complain,” he tells her, “your life must be so awful with this grumpy, potato-smelling invalid trampling all over your space. How could my sorrows ever compare to yours?” He stomps into his bedroom, feeling nothing short of childish, but he doesn’t particularly care. At least he got to sit while peeling, meaning his leg is feeling okay today. He takes off the prosthetic with a grunt, massaging the muscle surrounding his stump.

Flint hasn’t commented on his stuff either this time. Not only is there radio silence, he’s stopped liking John’s posts, and John feels utterly lost. He doesn’t understand why it affects him this badly. Has Flint really become that dominant in his life? They don’t even really talk that often. But John feels like he’s made the mistake of his life, has driven Flint away and he’s lost a tiny part of himself in the process. He checks the guy’s account, and it seems Flint hasn’t blocked him – yet. It only marginally comforts him.

So he decides this time to grow a pair and send a message, because his colleagues are right – he can’t keep doing this. It is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

_@longsilver: I’m sorry for last night_

_@longsilver: I feel like I crossed some sort of line. I promise you it was unintentional and I very much want to take it back_

Nothing. Then again, he’s just come home from a nightshift. It’s barely seven in the morning; chances are, Flint is still out cold. At least sending something makes him feel a little better, and so John falls asleep a little easier.

But when he wakes up and Flint hasn’t even read the message, he feels his blood almost boil.

_@longsilver: im trying to grovel here, you bastard_

_@longsilver: was i really that bad?_

He sighs, leaving it for now. He’s done what he can, but he can’t control captain fucking Flint. If the guy feels like talking, he’ll talk.

At least, John hopes he does.

* * *

He manages to put the ordeal out of his mind somewhat, burying himself in the work instead. The next shift he has, John returns to the _Walrus_ with a disgustingly saccharine smile. Billy gives him a slightly worried glance and Max snorts, but it’s enough to convince DeGroot to let him interact with customers again. Which is nice. John finds it far easier to lose himself in the work when he’s chatting to actual human beings instead of dishes or potatoes. It’s what he's good at; he wouldn’t be an influencer otherwise. A couple of drunk girls even fawn over him, not because they recognise him, but simply because of his looks and the charming mask he’s put on. He stays at their table chatting just a little too long, but DeGroot lets him get away with it this time. It’s good for business, and even better for John’s tip jar.

That’s how it goes the next few days. He has surprisingly okay shifts, visits the gym, and even enjoys the summer afternoons when he has time. He also apologises to Ben and Billy for his outburst, since he’s not a monster and actually likes having a semi-decent relationship with his colleagues.

But the days still feel hollow. He tries posting about his adventures, sharing with his followers the sun, his sweaty post-workout face, a raised beer, closed eyes and tanned skin. Each post gets well over a thousand likes.

Just nothing from Flint.

So he contacts Madi instead. Not for another attempt to get in her pants, he knows for a fact that would go down just as smoothly as it did last time. Instead, he calls her, and they end up having a delightful chat. Madi works with the council as an activist advisor, discussing issues of equality and racism with the mayor himself. She’s had a rough day, so John invites her to join him outside one of the cafes in the city centre.

She shows up half an hour later, a smile curving her lips at the sight of him shielding his gaze from the sun. He knows what he looks like, he posted a selfie not ten minutes before – curls half tied back, sunglasses hanging from his sleeveless shirt. He’s sated and pliant in the summer warmth, and honestly ready for a nap. But Madi kicks his chair leg out from under him, and suddenly he’s wide awake.

“Did you have to?” he asks, a touch disgruntled. He nearly spilled his drink all over himself, and Madi is trying to hold back her laughter.

“I can’t have you absent-minded every time we meet,” she tells him, the spark in her eye telling him she means well. He shakes his head.

“You are absolutely right,” he says. “Have a drink. Whatever you fancy. It’s on me, to make up for, you know.” He gestures vaguely, and she raises an eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t make him elaborate. Naturally, she chooses one of the more expensive cocktails available, but he thinks she’s deserved it. She’s a better person than him by far.

They lean back in their seats, Madi letting out a contented little sigh.

“So, how’s politics?” John asks light-heartedly. Madi groans.

“It’s shit,” she tells him. “You ever been surrounded only by old white men?” John opens his mouth, but she gives him a _look_. “Don’t you _dare_ make that dirty. Anyway, Guthrie only listens to advice that will help him keep up appearances. I swear, the only breath of fresh air in there is Guthrie’s daughter. She’s almost as self-serving as Guthrie senior, but at least she cares somewhat about people.”

John raises his eyebrows, but Madi just shakes her head. “You didn’t hear this from me. Got that?”

“Got it,” he laughs.

“How’s the internet?” she asks then. John lets out a nervous laugh.

“Oh, you know,” he answers, “they’re nice. Feeding into my narcissism, as per usual.” Madi laughs at that, but from the way she looks at him, it’s clear she’s picked up on something.

“Are you reluctant to talk about it because it’s awkward or cringey?” she asks, and oh boy, she does like to cut to the chase, doesn’t she? “Or is there something specific going on?”

“Why does it matter?” John asks, trying to keep his unwillingness to answer as subtle as possible.

“Because you’re an okay guy,” Madi answers, “and if it’s something specific, maybe you should do something about it. It’s not healthy otherwise.”

“I appreciate the concern,” he tells her. “But it’s…”

“Complicated?” She raises an eyebrow, and he pulls a face. “You men, can’t talk about anything. No wonder you’re a mess.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer being a nun,” John tells her. “No men in sight in a nunnery.”

“Nuns still deal with Jesus,” she retorts. “Not to mention abstinence. I think I’d prefer being a lesbian.”

John snorts so hard, his drink shoots out his nose, drenching his shirt. “Alright, no need to mess with me like that,” he splutters as she helps him dry off with a napkin, still laughing. “You made your point.” Madi leans back, her eyes glittering as she takes a sip from her own drink. John sighs.

“I have a… _thing_ going on,” he finally says. Madi snorts.

“I got that much,” she tells him. “What kind of thing? And I swear to God, John, if you say ‘a complicated thing’ I will steal your phone and post the dumbest picture I can find on your Instagram account.”

“It’s a guy.”

Madi falls silent at that. For a horrifyingly long few seconds, John waits for the judgement, disgust even, but as the silence stretches, he realises it won’t come. Madi’s gaze is scrutinising, but not judgmental.

“We, um, we talk,” he continues tentatively. “Not every day, but often. Really deep conversations, too. And I don’t…” he draws a hand down his face, letting out a shaky laugh. “God, I don’t know what it is, Madi. But I think…” He sighs.

He needs a minute, just a moment to put his thoughts in order. John can talk like the best of them, his mouth running circles around others. He can practically read minds, is usually two steps ahead of any conversation. But self-reflection? Standing still with his own thoughts, analysing what he himself is actually thinking? That is still relatively new to him. He swallows.

“I think, somewhere along the line, this thing –” he gestures vaguely again – “became less about gaining followers and getting the attention of strangers, and more about…”

“Getting attention from him.” He looks up and finds Madi looking almost straight into his soul.

“I don’t know what this is, Madi,” he says again, a tinge of despair in his voice. “I don’t – I love attention, always have, I have no shame admitting that, but now I just don’t – I don’t feel _seen_ unless he’s there to notice me.”

As soon as he’s said them, the words hit him like a freight train. He’s reeling with it, the weight of it. When he looks up again, he can feel his eyes are wide with fear. “What does that mean?”

Madi is quiet for a moment, but then she shifts a bit, contemplation drawing out her words. “I think,” she says, slowly, carefully, “that you need to talk to him. Earnestly. Not about deep topics, but about this. About your feelings.”

John lets out a short burst of laughter, the sound bitter in his ears. “I think I ruined my chances at that,” he tells her. “I… made a stupid mistake, we were both drunk and I messaged him some stupid shit – in my defence, he seemed to be baiting me. But now he’s shut me out, he’s not commenting or even liking my stuff anymore, and I haven’t heard from him in days.” He drops back into his chair, throwing his arm up dramatically to cover his face.

“And you apologised?”

“Yes,” he mutters.

“Has he seen it?”

“No.”

“Has he blocked you?”

He stills. “Not _yet_ ,” he answers carefully. When he lifts his arm a little to look at her, Madi smiles back at him.

“Give him time,” she says. “You say you have deep conversations? He likes to talk. I’m sure he’ll get back to you. Men just need time to process their emotions. Women too, but men are especially bad for it.”

“How long?” John asks, and Madi laughs.

“Oh, I wouldn’t get my hopes up for a quick and easy fix,” she replies. “One of my exes took five years to process something his mother once said to him.” She sobers up a little then. “I hope for your sake that your guy is better than that.”

John huffs, hiding behind his bicep again. “God, I fucking hope so.”

* * *

Instead of five years, it is a mere five days later when John’s phone finally, _finally_ lights up with the notification he’s been waiting for.

He nearly shoves Toast, who decided to take a nap on top of the device, onto the floor in his haste to grab it. Toast quickly runs off to Randall to complain, and part of John’s mind thinks that he should probably be sceptical of how kosher his dinner is tonight, as if Randall would actually understand what Toast is saying and would search retribution on the cat’s behalf by spitting in the soup again. But in all honesty, right now, he doesn’t give a shit.

_Flint messaged him._

_@captainflint: Do you really think I’d hold a grudge like that?_

_@longsilver: JESUS_

_@captainflint: I appreciate it, but Flint works fine. Or James, in case you changed your mind on that yet_

_@longsilver: so you’re not dead??_

_@captainflint: No._

_@longsilver: THEN WHY THE FUCKING SILENCE_

_@captainflint: It was in fact the phone that died._

John stares at his screen for a solid thirty seconds before he lets out a scream, nearly throwing the hellish piece of electronics against the fucking wall. Randall pops his head around the door two seconds later, Toast at his feet. She’s probably come in the hope to see John writhing in agony on the floor. He feels some childish satisfaction in disappointing her.

“I’m fine, Randall, just…” He points at his phone. Randall gives him a Look.

“You’re very strange,” the man says, to which John lets out a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Yeah, thanks Randall, you too,” he replies. That seems to satisfy the man, who disappears back to the kitchen, Toast on his heels. John turns back to his phone, ready to furiously type his next reply before realising that Flint has spoken again.

_@captainflint: Though if you were already saying things you wanted to take back, perhaps it’s for the best I never got the chance to encourage you further._

He was going to keep up their little… whatever was going on between the two of them that night, John realises. He looks at the sentence, willing it to come to life, show him the layers beneath the lines. But screens are harder to read than people, and Flint’s words are hiding something he can’t quite get a grasp on.

_@longsilver: I was convinced I scared you away. That’s all I wanted to take back_

His hands are shaking. It’s just about the most honest thing he’s ever said to Flint.

_@captainflint: Oh_

_@captainflint: I’m sorry for any stress caused._

_@captainflint: What was that you said about grovelling though? I must admit, I like the sound of that_

_Jesus_ , John thinks. Flint can’t just _say_ shit like that. He lets out a soft groan, shifting on his bed to let his jogging bottoms sit a bit more comfortably around his crotch, where it has suddenly grown just a bit tighter. His mind wanders back to his conversation with Madi, and this time the groan crossing his lips is a far less pleased one.

_@longsilver: my friend says we should talk_

_@captainflint: Jesus, really? Does your friend know how much we talk already?_

_@captainflint: Tell me it’s not Billy giving that fucking advice_

_@longsilver: I have more friends than just billy, you know_

_@captainflint: Thank fuck for that, I don’t think he was overly fond of me by the time I left the Walrus_

_@captainflint: Actually, does Billy know we talk?_

_@longsilver: stop fixating on billy, it’s not him_

_@longsilver: and no he doesn’t_

_@captainflint: Alright, keep your fucking socks on. What’s so important?_

You know what, John doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not one bit. He’s been honest enough, he thinks. There’s been enough emotions. Right now, he’d just really like to have one of his classic discussions with the man. So he does what he does best; he lies.

_@longsilver: well, important is probably the wrong word_

_@longsilver: she’s currently trying to bring issues of systemic racism up with our mayor, and I told her about your stance on decolonisation. She was interested in your input_

It’s enough to send Flint into one of his lectures, and John smiles. He’s missed this. He’s missed the passion, the swearing, the feeling like he’s learning something, something important. He’s missed being rallied into a cause he never would have guessed he’d be interested in.

He smiles at the screen, and he thinks, _I’ve missed you._

* * *

It’s about an hour later when he gets the notification that Flint made another Instagram post. He quickly opens the app, fully expecting some pretty picture with a caption discussing decolonisation, but instead there is no caption. The image looks very Instagram-worthy though; a handwritten journal, words scrawled in black across the page in a barely legible hand. There are splotches of ink everywhere, giving the impression along with the sharp jut of the words that the whole thing was written in either haste, frustration, or some other form of passion. There is even an old-fashioned dip pen thrown on top of the paper. The way the sunlight glares across the pages makes the entire thing look extremely pretty – or pretentious, depending on who you ask.

But Flint doesn’t do trendy white girl posts, so John zooms in and tries to read the words. The first sentence is a continuation of the previous page, and some parts of words and sentences are covered either by the body of the pen or by ink splotches, but he manages to more or less make sense of the handwriting if he squints.

_to go unheard. I thought I was a listener, not a speaker – until my voice was taken. The one p- ho m----_ _like a cord being severed, and I feel like a bat, blinded by my muteness. How did I get here? How can the loss of something so small cause me to feel like I am drowning? I feel in--- a- lpless._

_I believe it terrifies me. I am distracted. I am angry. I try speaking to anyone and everyone but the right words have been lost, and all that comes out is static. All over the l-s of ------ll and simple._

_I never imagined technology to hold so much power. But perhaps it is not the technology who holds the power over me._

That’s where John stops reading. There is more, of course there is more, but Jesus Christ. _Jesus fucking Christ._

What did he just read?

Of course, his mind wants to tell him that it is about him; _it has to be_. He recognises the feelings so strongly, it’s all he’s been feeling for the past week. Flint has lost something – the use of his phone, perhaps; it would make sense – and it made him consider, what? The power of technology over him? Except it wasn’t the technology that held such sway.

But the words could mean anything. He could’ve lost something else. He could be feeling the loss of anything or anyone.

All John knows is, it feels like a fucking intimate diary entry, and he’s not sure if it was ever meant to be studied up close and read. Maybe Flint is unaware you can zoom in on Instagram images.

 _Or_ , a treacherous little voice in the back of John’s head says, _maybe he meant for you to read it. You’re the only one who ever tries, who makes the effort. Maybe this was meant for you._

He lets out a hysteric little noise and turns off his phone completely.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys and your comments definitely fuel my writing. Anyway, warning for a bit of PTSD and a panic attack to open the chapter with, but I promise, the rest of the chapter MORE than makes up for it.

John feels like he’s only just fallen asleep when his phone goes off. He groggily opens his eyes, noticing that it is indeed still dark out and therefore can’t be more than an hour or two since he’s gone to bed, but he reaches for his phone anyway to check the caller ID.

He frowns when he sees that it’s Flint. The man is calling him through his Instagram DM, requesting a facetime. He’s never done that before; they’ve only ever messaged each other. John quickly picks up, seeing nothing but darkness on his screen. He can hear rapid breathing though, and while of course his mind leans towards the gutter for a brief second, he swiftly grows cold as his instincts are triggered.

What he hears is pure, blind panic.

“Flint?” he asks, his voice still groggy with sleep. “Flint, talk to me.” But the panicked gasps continue, and John is starting to get scared. “Damnit, Flint, talk to me, please!”

Still nothing.

John closes his eyes, and for a brief moment he is brought back in time. He feels the gasps in his own chest, sees the flashing lights of the emergency services in the dark, hears nothing but noise and his own cries of pain as his leg feels like it’s on fire –

And the voice of an ambulance worker, talking to him in a low voice, asking his name, addressing him with it at every chance, keeping him centred, grounded, awake, communicative as he’s hoisted into the back of the ambulance.

“James,” he tries, his voice no longer shrill with panic, but low as he tries to calm himself. “James, it’s me. It’s Silver. _John_.”

And Flint’s breath stutters for a second, his attention caught. _Good_. It’s a start.

“Talk to me, James,” he says. “Tell me something.”

“What?” Flint rasps, and for a second, John’s mind blanks, because _Jesus_ , he was not prepared for Flint to sound like that. But then he manages to pull himself together again.

“What day is it?” he asks, and he can hear Flint’s mind reeling.

“I – I don’t – I can’t –”

“That’s okay,” John quickly intersects him. “What time of the day is it?” That should be easier.

“It’s… It’s night,” Flint manages. “It’s dark.”

“Yes. Good,” John says, feeling a hint of relief. “You’re not out of it completely, you knew to grab your phone and talk to me.”

“I couldn’t – couldn’t type,” Flint tells him. “I had to…”

“I know,” John soothes him. “You have your phone in your hand. Can you look at it?”

“Yes,” comes the answer after a moment, this time a little less laboured.

“Tell me what time it is.”

“It’s… four.”

“Four what?”

“…forty-eight.”

“4:48am?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” John says. “Okay. That makes sense.” He falls silent for a moment, but as the silence stretches, he hears Flint’s voice hitch again, so he quickly speaks.

“Okay, you need to ground yourself,” he tells Flint. “Tell me what your surroundings look like.”

“It’s dark,” Flint repeats. “There’s… there’s a little bit of light. Moonlight. Coming through the window. The curtains are being blown wide. I left the window open.”

“Good. What else?”

“They’re French windows,” Flint continues, and as he calms down, John feels himself growing calmer too, soothed by the low, gravelly tones. “Big and open. Let in a lot of light, and a lot of air.”

“And the rest of the room?” John asks.

“Light as well,” Flint replies. “Lots of white and light wood tones. Paint scuffed everywhere, but it’s nice.”

“Cluttered?”

“A bit. Clothes on the floor.”

He lets out a low breath, and John can feel him come to his senses over the phone.

“Let’s try another sense,” he says. “What does it smell like?”

He can hear a hint of a smile on Flint’s next words. “Lavender,” the man replies softly. “I grow lavender under my window. Lavender and the sea.”

“You live near the beach?”

Flint hums, low and affirming. “On the beach,” he says. “The house is on stilts. Keeps it safe in a storm, when the waves crash up on shore. I can hear them. Don’t think I could ever sleep without that sound.” He falls silent then, and this time, the panic doesn’t return as he listens to the sounds of an ocean that is just out of earshot for John.

“What about touch?” John asks eventually, quiet as to not break the spell. “Tell me what you feel. Focus on every little part of your body.”

Flint doesn’t answer for a moment, and John briefly thinks the man must’ve fallen asleep again, but then he replies in equally hushed tones.

“My bed is old,” he whispers. “The mattress could use replacing. It dips, right in the middle.”

“You don’t stick to a side?”

“No,” Flint replies. “I sprawl. It gets warm here in summer. It’s the best way to keep cool, spread out in the middle, half on top of the sheets. They’re bunched under me. It’s actually a bit uncomfortable. They’re digging into my stomach.”

John listens to the man shift for a moment until he’s more comfortable.

“They’re soft, though,” Flint then continues. “Softer than the mattress. Thin. Light.”

“You’re under them now?” John asks quietly. Again, Flint hums.

“Was getting chilly with the breeze.”

They lie in the dark together for a moment, just breathing.

“Did I wake you?” Flint then asks. “I assumed you might be awake, with your nightshifts, but you sound…”

John smiles. “Yeah,” he replies. “I don’t mind, though.”

The silence returns, and it stretches between them. Just like John imagined in his fantasies of them talking, actually speaking, it is a comfortable silence, full of everything that doesn’t need to be said.

“Are you… okay?” he asks eventually. He can’t say for sure, but he imagines Flint stiffening just a little on the other end of the line.

“I’m fine,” he replies eventually. “I’m good now.” He quiets for a moment before saying, in a slightly softer tone, “Thank you.”

“No problem,” John whispers in return.

The silence stretches further, but neither of them seem to want to hang up yet. Eventually, John plucks up the courage to ask another question.

“Nightmares?” he asks. Flint stays quiet for a moment, contemplating his reply.

“More or less,” he says eventually. “It’s… a mix of things, really.” He doesn’t seem to want to elaborate beyond that, which John can accept.

“I get night terrors sometimes,” he tells Flint. One vulnerable truth for another. “Had… something happen to me, about a year back. It’s one of the reasons why I like my nightshifts. When I wake up, it’s almost guaranteed to be light outside. Everything is safer in the daylight.”

Flint hums again at that, and John could hear that sound on repeat. “Then again,” Flint mutters, “would we talk like this in the light of day?”

John feels his breath falter, his heart stutter. “I’d like to imagine so,” he replies carefully. “But perhaps you’re right. It’s easier to speak in the dark sometimes.”

Flint is quiet again for a moment, but when he speaks, his words are an utter surprise. “You know,” he says, his tone more casual, more comfortable, “I used to _love_ sleepovers.”

“What?” John laughs incredulously.

“Seriously,” Flint replies. “I’m… well, not the biggest people person. Never have been, even as a kid. God, I could be so awkward. But sleepovers? Lying in the dark after beating the shit out of each other with pillows, tired out and willing to admit all your secrets to the dark, where you can’t see each other’s faces, each other’s judgements?” John can hear him smile. “It’s where I was most comfortable.”

“That must have been a while ago,” John says, and he instantly wants to kick himself when Flint stills.

“Are you calling me old?”

“I… no?”

The silence stretches again, but then Flint laughs, low and heartily. “You’re a shit liar, Silver.”

“Well, you _are_ older than me!” John protests, but the sound of Flint’s laughter is heaven. He wants, _needs_ , to make him laugh again. Perhaps he won’t manage again this quickly, but he’ll try again in the future. He’ll try many more times, he decides.

“Perhaps,” Flint muses, amusement still audible in his voice. “Don’t you reminisce for your younger years?”

“God no,” John laughs in response. “I was a piece of shit. ‘Hubris and cheek’, I think my mum said once. I’m very glad to have grown up since then.” He doesn’t mention what made him grow up, doesn’t feel like he needs to. Tonight is not the night for sob stories, not that he’d consider himself one.

“Think you’re good to sleep?” he asks eventually, when both their breathing has evened out again. Flint sighs.

“I suppose,” he replies quietly. For a moment, John imagines he can hear the ocean on the other side of the phone, soothing them both. “But Silver…”

“Yes?” he asks, just a little too eager.

“I… This was nice. I’d like to talk to you again like this in the future. Besides the messaging, I mean. If that’s okay with you.”

“Without the night terrors?” John asks, half-teasing. His heart is going a mile a minute.

“In the daylight,” Flint replies with a smile in his voice.

“Or perhaps we’ll hold a digital sleepover.”

Flint laughs at that, and John closes his eyes, savouring the sound. “I’m not opposed,” he replies, before his voice softens. “Thank you again.”

“Yeah,” John replies quietly. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Silver.”

* * *

When he arrives for his shift the next day, Max honest-to-god _sniffs_ him.

“What the hell, Max!?” John says, but she just frowns, unperturbed.

“Strange,” she says. “The stick is gone from your arse, but you don’t smell like you got a good fucking. What changed?”

“Oh my god, I get no fucking privacy here,” he exclaims. Billy snorts, while Ben hops up on the counter.

“It’s a good question though,” he says, to John’s chagrin. “If not sex, what did the trick for you? Please tell us so we know how to fix you the next time you get like this.”

“What, you wouldn’t offer to have me right over this counter to ‘fix me’? That a step too far?” John retorts, salaciously bending over right beside Ben, sticking his ass out at a ridiculous exaggerated angle. Max slaps it hard as she walks past, causing him to let out a yelp.

“This isn’t a brothel or a frat house,” DeGroot grunts as he walks in on the scene. “Gunn, get off the counter before your balls catch fire. Silver, out front please. The nightshift nurses are due to be on break and I expect you to treat them with every bit of the respect they deserve.”

“Yes sir,” they reply in chorus, jumping to action.

John’s colleagues are right, he realises as he works. He no longer grins falsely through glinting teeth, instead actually enjoying his shift again. The stick from his arse is indeed more or less gone, which, considering all he did was have a chat with Flint, is kind of a miracle. He approaches Max while the two of them are on break, both cradling a cup of coffee.

“You’re in a relationship, right?” he asks her, to which she draws up an eyebrow.

“I am amazed you’ve noticed,” she drawls. Considering Anne picks her up after every shift and accompanies her to every pub crawl, yeah, okay, stupid question.

“Okay, fine, Jesus,” he says. “Rephrase. Are you… like… in love?”

At that, both Max’ eyebrows shoot up. “My word, John, am I hearing this right? Don’t tell me you’re a romantic now.”

“Just answer the question, I beg you.”

Max sighs. “ _Merde_ , I need more coffee for this,” she mutters. She sends him a glance which he interprets as _you’d better get me another cappuccino right now, before our break ends_. He lifts his prosthetic leg.

“Cripple,” he reminds her. Her expression doesn’t change, and he sighs.

“Fine, whatever.” He quickly goes back to the counter, pouring another cup to bring back to Max. While he was gone, she’s drained her previous cup, and now eagerly reaches out to wrap her hands around the new one. They sit out behind the _Walrus_ together, surrounded by stock that needs to be moved inside at some point. The stars are out above them, though faint through the light pollution of the city, and John can hear a couple of crickets. He sighs.

“I would die for Anne,” Max says then, startling him from his reverie.

“Seriously?”

She nods, taking a noisy slurp of foam. John holds back a smile. Max is an inscrutable queen in public, but behind the scenes, all decorum falls away.

“So,” he probes, “do you ever just, feel better for talking to her?”

“Just talking?” Max laughs. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, John, but Anne doesn’t talk much.”

“All the more joy to be found in the moments she does, then, isn’t there?”

She gives him a Look. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Do you think you can feel like that from friendship?”

She shrugs. “I’m relatively new to having true friends,” she admits. John thinks back to his conversation with Flint. _Would we talk like this in the light of day?_ “I don’t doubt a conversation with a friend can make you happy, but sated like you are? I’d say that’s something else.”

John knows that, of course he does; he’s not that big an idiot. But the words still cause him to panic. Max seems to notice, and she snorts.

“Look at you, sweating bullets over catching feelings,” she points out. “I was thinking you’d changed beyond recognition after the leg thing, but this is _classic_ you.” She knocks back the rest of her coffee and gets up, pressing a kiss against the top of his head as she walks past him.

“Whoever your mystery friend is, you should talk more often,” she tells him as she vanishes back into the kitchens. “It makes you infinitely more tolerable.”

* * *

John and Flint talk regularly again, like their little break never happened, like the night terrors didn’t change a thing. And John likes it just fine like this. It’s familiar, and familiar is easy.

John is always at war with himself between self-preservation and diving headfirst into an opening or opportunity regardless of the consequences, and right now, his self-preservation is winning. It always is when it comes to people. John hesitates to get attached to anyone. The opportunity to antagonise he often takes, but the chance to get close? No thanks. He has friends, of course, but it’s the easy-going type of friendship, where everything is light-hearted and nothing runs deeper – not explicitly, anyway. His brief conversation with Max was an exception to the norm of his interactions with his friends, the type of chat found at those sleepovers Flint is so fond of. Sleepovers that John never really had.

So he goes about his days as he always does, posting selfies, chatting with Flint, and working at the _Walrus_. Flint doesn’t call him again, and life is easy.

Except in every message Flint sends, John can hear his voice now. Can hear the deep timbre, the cadence of his words, can hear the stiffness when he pretends to be cross or judgmental, the sarcasm. He can hear his laughter when it takes him a while to reply to John’s wittier messages, can hear the hesitation, the contemplation after he’s typed out a well-thought-out argument.

He wonders if Flint is purposefully not calling him again. If he’s pushing him, waiting for John to make the next move. John might do it, eventually, but for now, he’s too comfortable. He’s had his shot of the drug that Flint is to him, and he feels like he can run on it for a while. Perhaps when Flint’s voice fades in his head a little, he’ll call him. For unrelated reasons, of course. It wouldn’t do to tell a grown-ass man _I just needed to hear your voice again_ ; he imagines himself to not quite be _that_ pathetic, thank you very much.

His pride lasts about a week.

It’s a rainy morning when he gets home from a shift, aching and disgruntled. The drizzle has absolutely ruined his curls, which provided the perfect opportunity for a selfie to post on his account. By the time he’s made it back to his flat, Flint has left his characteristic dry remark on the post, meaning he’s awake.

John looks at his screen for a moment before thinking, _fuck it_.

Flint picks up almost immediately, and for a moment John blinks, because that’s… that’s _Flint_. That’s his _face_. _Moving_. The only way to call through Instagram, which is the contact details they have of each other, is to facetime, and the last time they’d laid in the dark. But now it’s daylight, and a groggy-looking Flint is staring at him directly. It’s not great, Flint’s connection seems a bit shit, which makes sense if he lives in a hut on the beach, so his screen is a bit pixelated. But it’s Flint, and he’s talking to John.

“Morning,” he says, his voice heavy with sleep. He’s standing in his kitchen, it seems, making himself a cup of tea. John smiles.

“Morning.”

“Just got home?” Flint asks, and his tone is absentminded, simple, achingly domestic. “You look fucking ridiculous, by the way. Like Brian May got electrocuted.”

“Thanks, Captain Bed-Head,” he retorts good-naturedly as he makes his way down the hallway and to the bathroom. Flint squints at him with a threatening glare, but both the grainy image quality and his morning grogginess make it a lot less intimidating than John is sure he intended.

He puts the phone down on the sink, grabbing a brush and some anti-frizzing spray to attempt taming whatever is going on with his hair. “You always up this early?” he asks as he works through his curls. Flint nods. He’s finished making his cup and is now cradling it with both hands, inhaling the scent.

“Some habits die hard,” he replies. John laughs.

“A habit makes sense, more at least than it being some part of your radiant personality,” he says. “You don’t seem like a morning person at all, seeing you like this.”

“If I knew I was just going to get berated, I wouldn’t have picked up,” Flint grunts, but John can tell it’s half-hearted. There’s a tug at the corner of Flint’s mouth, exaggerated by the curl of his moustache, that tells him Flint is secretly glad for the company. “Besides, I have work to get to.”

“You work?”

“Most of us do, Silver,” he reminds him.

“What do you do?” He’s genuinely curious, fascinated with what this man full of political ideas, righteous fury and poetic waxings fills his days with.

Flint actually looks a little flustered, rubbing his neck with one hand while holding his cup in the other. “This and that, really,” he replies, avoiding John’s glance. “I work on the beach.”

“Sounds nice,” John says. “Better than the _Walrus_ , I imagine.”

Suddenly, the bathroom door flies open, and a _very_ groggy Randall stares at him.

“Um,” John says intelligently, brush half dangling from his hair.

“Need to piss,” Randall tells him, which, okay, that is John’s cue to leave the bathroom ASAP, because Randall has no qualms in just whipping it out and doing what he needs to do regardless of whether John is there or not. He quickly snatches up his toothbrush and paste and rushes to the kitchen, nearly tripping over a loudly protesting Toast in his hurry.

When he looks back up at his phone screen, there is a piece of toast – the edible kind, though technically the meowing version is edible too if you think about it – half dangling from Flint’s lips.

“You live with _Randall_?”

“Uh, yeah,” John laughs nervously. “It’s actually how I got my job at the _Walrus_. In a way, you can thank him for knowing me.”

It takes a moment, but then laughter starts rumbling in Flint’s chest, rolling up like thunder until it washes over him, ringing loud and clear in the kitchen.

“I cannot _believe_ ,” the man wheezes, “Randall was about to take a piss in the back of your call!”

“Sadly, I can,” John replies, now laughing too. “With horrifying clarity.”

“Don’t tell me he’s done it before!?” Flint asks, eyes wide, but John shakes his head.

“God, fuck no, not while I’m on call anyway,” he hurriedly replies. “Then again, I don’t usually call people like this. If he’d had the opportunity, he might just have.”

This sends Flint only further into hysterics, and John can’t help but be dragged along. They both sit in their respective kitchens, wheezing and wiping tears from their faces.

“Ah, fuck you,” Flint finally manages when he’s caught his breath, but it’s said in good humour. “You’re gonna make me late for work.”

“Your work is literally two steps outside your door,” John points out. “It would take a miracle.”

“Or a shit like you,” Flint replies, a glint in his eye. John snorts.

“Didn’t I tell you? I _am_ a miracle,” he retorts. The look Flint sends him at that drips with incredulity, and okay, he’s probably deserved that.

“Yeah, anyway, I should probably head for bed,” John says reluctantly. “But it was nice chatting.”

“Indeed,” Flint agrees with another snort. “Should I say goodnight?”

“If you like.”

“Well then, goodnight, Silver,” he says as he pushes off the counter with a grunt, reaching out of frame to return with a coat. It looks historic yet timeless, dark blue with a military flare. It looks _good_.

“Good luck at work,” John replies. They smile, and then he hangs up.

The exhaustion catches up with him pretty quick, and as the humour fades, he remembers his aching leg, hip, and even lower back – today really took a toll on him. But he doesn’t mind anymore. When he finally falls into bed and slips into slumber, it is with a smile on his face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay, but I'm sure you guys won't mind. This chapter has everything; crack, fluff, a hint of angst and even... ***gasp*** _smut_. Which is why it took so long and is also why it's double the length. I upped the rating now from M to E, just so you're all aware. Anyway, enjoy!!

A new routine emerges. It goes like this:

John returns home from work, usually at about seven in the morning. He calls Flint pretty much the moment he’s through the door. They then spend the next thirty minutes together, John readying himself for bed while Flint gets ready to start the day. Sometimes they spend the time in amicable silence; John will be brushing his teeth and doing some exercises or skincare for his leg – keeping the prosthetic or stump out of shot – while Flint drinks tea and reads his newspaper. Sometimes, an article in the paper sparks a conversation, or more commonly a rant, which they don’t have time to discuss, so instead, Flint sends him a picture of it or a long and detailed message for John to wake up to.

This now happens almost every other morning.

“Fellas,” John says as he walks into the _Walrus_ kitchen, “is it gay to spend almost every morning with a guy in domestic bliss as he gets ready for work while you get ready for bed?”

Ben drops a serving tray laden with dirty dishes, shattering several plates. His eyes are wide on John, though, unaware of the carnage around his feet.

“Wow, thanks for that, Ben,” John winces. “Not quite the answer I was hoping for.”

Billy is staring too, while Max is about to piss herself with laughter. John narrows his eyes at them all.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I.”

DeGroot walks in then, checking on the source of the crash. John turns to him with a radiant smile.

“Ah, Mr. DeGroot, surely you know the answer to this,” he says. “Spending near every morning with a guy in domestic bliss, gay or nay?”

DeGroot stares at him. He looks at Ben, who looks white, then at the shards at his feet, then back at John.

He turns around and exists the kitchen again without a word.

“Okay, seriously, don’t tell me you’re all homophobic,” John complains. “What’s going on?”

“Please,” Ben begs him, his voice shaky, “ _please_ tell me you’re not fucking Randall.”

John thinks he actually feels a bit of sick in his throat. “Randall?” he replies hoarsely. “ _Randall_!?” Max is now fully in tears, mascara streaming down her face, and he throws a dish rag at her. “Jesus – no, it’s not Randall! Oh my _God_ , I can’t believe you’d even ask –”

“Well, you live with the guy,” Billy points out weakly, “what else were we supposed to think?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe something that didn’t jump to sexual conclusions!” John replies shrilly. “I asked if it’s gay to spend time together; if we were – _fucking­_ –” he winces – “I’d know the answer, wouldn’t I!?”

Max makes her way over, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing patronisingly. “You two have my blessing,” she tells him before quickly ducking out of reach.

“You’re definitely not my mother, but thanks,” he calls after her as she heads for the dining area. “Might wanna check yourself in the mirror first, you have a serious case of panda eyes going on!”

“So, um,” Billy coughs, “blissful breakfasts, huh?”

“For him,” John points out as he goes to help Ben clean up the shards. “Bedtime for me.”

“And it isn’t Randall?”

“No, Jesus, it’s not Randall,” he replies, exasperated. “It’s kind of a long-distance thing. We facetime. Seriously, help me out here, boys. My brain is spinning out of control with all the ways I could or should interpret this, and I need a second opinion.”

“Is he older?” Ben asks, waggling his eyebrows, and Billy fake-gags. John laughs.

“Uh, maybe,” he admits. “Yeah, he’s like… a bit older.”

“How big of a difference are we talking?” Ben tries, but John shakes his head. He doesn’t want to give everything away, and his greatest fear is Billy somehow deducing that it’s Flint. Besides, he doesn’t actually know how old Flint is.

“Does it matter?” he asks, and Billy shrugs, but Ben nods.

“If he’s geriatric, he’ll just be looking for company,” he points out, and now it’s John’s turn to pull a face.

“Okay, no, he’s not geriatric,” he protests. “Like, ten, fifteen years older.”

“Hmm,” Ben hums. “That’s trickier. At that age, who knows what a man might be looking for?”

But Billy stares hard at him, and for a moment John fears he’s given away the game.

“Did you consider asking him?” he says, and John groans.

“Not you too. Why does it always come down to talking about my feelings?”

“Because it’s the only way to know for certain,” Billy points out. “You can’t rely on us to fix all your emotional issues.”

John snorts. “I can sure as hell try,” he mutters. Billy shakes his head, following Max out to the front.

“Oh, and John?” he says as he turns around, grinning worryingly. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucking gay.”

John throws a dish rag at him too.

Okay. Okay, so John is definitely catching some non-straight feelings. It’s not completely foreign to him, he supposes; he accepted that men can be hot back when he was a teenager. But wanking over the thought of a glistening pair of pecs is a whole other thing from dreaming of lazy morning kisses and having a cup of tea before work with a man. It’s almost bizarre, John thinks; he was never raised to crave domesticity. At best, people would encourage him to be the provider, not to be on the receiving end. At worst – an altogether much more common phenomenon – he’d be told that a relationship is all about the sex, and maybe having a listening ear.

But now, he’s craving domesticity from an older, handsome man. Anne called him a fuckboy once before he lost his leg, and she’d not exactly been wrong. Now, he doesn’t know what he is.

He’s starting to realise however that maybe it was never the gender that bothered or puzzled him as such, but the intimacy.

When he tries bringing it up with Max, she just groans. It turns out she has a limit for how many deep conversations she can handle, and he must’ve hit her quota for the month. He doesn’t particularly want to bother Madi with it either, feeling like she deserves more from him than just being his relationship counsellor. The boys are definitely not gonna show any sympathy. As much as John loathes admitting his friends are right, it really leaves him with only one option.

_@johnsilver: sleepover soon?_

_@captainflint: If you’re not busy working, I’m not opposed_

Oh, the enthusiasm really jumps off the screen. John lets out a tortured groan. He’s always been good at talking to Flint, but not about himself. He _sucks_ at talking about himself. Hopefully, the night will bring some ease with it.

* * *

They agree to have their digital – _thing_ – on Monday night. John for once doesn’t have a nightshift, and James doesn’t work on Tuesdays, so both can afford to waste away the evening if they so wish. To make it even better, Randall has taken a nightshift and will be out of their hair. John has no idea what to expect, but he got himself snacks and alcohol. He’s got a feeling that especially the alcohol will come in handy.

When he phones Flint, the man is standing at his kitchen counter, the phone presumably set against the backsplash tiles or some object so he can have both hands free as he cooks. John can just see the open space behind him, all light wood tones and peeling blue and white paint, but he’s too distracted by the sight of Flint’s bare forearms. He’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up – and what twenty-first century man wears billowing shirts like that, anyway? – and the evening summer sun is pouring in through the windows, lighting up the coppery hairs on his arms and highlighting the freckles scattered on his skin like constellations.

“Evening,” Flint says – no, fucking _smirks_ , and all John can manage is a very intelligent “Um.”

Okay, so maybe John is anything but subtle. But then again, he did ask for this so that they could talk _feelings_. Hiding his interests would probably be a bit counterproductive.

“How old are you?” he blurts out, and instantly wants to kick himself. Flint raises a single eyebrow, not watching his hands which are deftly chopping parsley.

“Any particular reason for such a question?” he responds. John refrains from headbutting his kitchen cabinet; there’s only so much of his insanity he can show before Flint just gives up on him and hangs up.

“I just,” he tries saying instead, “I’m curious, you know? Here we are, two grown men, having a sleepover.”

Flint snorts at that, and all is right with the world again. “Trust me, I’m aware.”

“So how come we’re doing this anyway?”

“How come we’re having a night to hang out and chat face to face, something I think we both felt a desperate need for, something which _you_ suggested we should do?” John glares at his phone, and Flint smirks again. “I ran it past people,” he shrugs then. “They said I might as well, it’d do me good. Though of course the wording of tonight’s activities is a tad juvenile.”

John lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well, you were the one who started about sleepovers,” he points out as he starts taking out ingredients for his own dinner. “So really, it’s your fault.”

Flint lets out a hearty laugh, and John smiles. The nerves are dissipating. It’s so easy and comfortable to talk to Flint sometimes, exhilarating at others. John loves it. He quickly takes a break from prepping his ingredients to crack open a beer.

“Anyway,” he says then, returning to his defrosting chicken thighs, “you said you’ve been needing this too?”

Flint gives him a Look, promptly followed by him quickly going to the fridge to grab a beer for himself too. John laughs, the gesture telling in itself.

“It’s been an exhausting week, let’s put it that way,” Flint says then. “The summer months are always busy for work, and I’ve…” He sighs, taking a brisk swig from his bottle. “I’ve been visited by ghosts from my past,” he tells John with a grimace.

“You’re welcome to call me whenever when shit like that bothers you, just so you know,” John tells Flint. “Don’t worry about my work or sleep. You know what DeGroot is like, and you also know what my sleep schedule is by now.”

Flint snorts at that. “DeGroot will chew you up for breakfast if I call you during a shift,” he says, and John laughs.

“He’ll get indigestion,” he retorts, causing Flint to crack up.

They talk amicably as they cook their respective meals, and John starts to realise more and more that this was in fact a very good idea. Feelings and contemplations aside, he truly feels like he’s hanging out with a friend. Moments like these are rare in his life these days, and he’s got a whole evening of it ahead. It’s the kind of emotional self-indulgence he’s been looking for.

“Are you – Silver, stop. What are you doing?” Flint asks at some point, just as John is chopping garlic.

“Um,” John says, which is really not helpful, he’s well aware, but he’s on his second beer, and though he’s nowhere near drunk, he’s also not interested in trying his damnest to be perfectly articulate.

“Just show me,” Flint urges, so John takes his phone and switches the camera, pointing it at his chopping board.

“Happy?”

“Christ, absolutely fucking not,” Flint retorts, visibly affronted. “You can put me down, by the way. But are you intending to give yourself heartburn?”

“What’s wrong with garlic?” John protests, but Flint lets out an incredulous little laugh.

“Nothing,” he replies, “until you use _six cloves_. Jesus, Silver, you’re cooking for one, not twenty.”

“I think you’re being hyperbolic,” John says, but he dutifully puts aside some of the cloves to place back into the fridge later.

“Yeah, well, wait – what are you –”

“Christ, you know, I _have_ cooked before, you know,” John laughs. “You’re making me second-guess myself.”

“As I fucking should, it turns out,” Flint retorts. “I cannot believe they let you into the kitchens at the _Walrus_.”

“It seems DeGroot trusts me more around food than you do.”

“You should come over,” Flint says then, and for a moment, John’s mind goes completely blank, but then he jolts.

“Mother _fucker_!”

“Excuse me?” Flint blinks, but he turns more serious when he sees John quickly rush over to the tap, trailing little drops of red. “John, you _moron_ , did you just –”

“Yes, I cut myself,” John snaps, though the use of his first name doesn’t pass by him, softening the edge to his voice a little. “You can’t say shit like that without warning.”

“Clearly,” Flint huffs, but his voice is tinged with worry. “What’s the damage?”

“It’s not deep, I don’t think,” John replies, hissing at the sensation of the water in his open wound. “A few millimetres, at most. But my phone might struggle to recognise my fingerprint.”

Flint shakes his head at that, letting out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he says, but John snorts.

“Don’t be, I’m just a mess, that’s not exactly on you,” he replies.

“In that case, I stand by what I said,” Flint says. “You should come over sometime. I’ll teach you how to cook without poisoning yourself.”

John hums. He likes the idea of it; loves it even. The sudden, overwhelming _yearning_ actually hits him like a freight train, and he has to take a moment to balance himself. “Maybe,” he replies, because if he said the words that are milling around in his mind, he will personally hang up and end this evening instantly before dying of mortification.

“Could I even get to you with public transport?” he asks then.

“You don’t drive?”

“No,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation. “Never learned, I’m afraid.” It’s a lie, but the truth would be that he can’t, not with his prosthetic leg, not unless he gets some fancy car that he can’t afford. He probably wouldn’t want to then either, anyway. From the way Flint looks at him, he seems to see through the lie, but luckily doesn’t press him on it.

“Hey, Max still works there, yes?” Flint asks instead, and John blinks.

“Um, yes?”

“She still dating that Anne Bonny?”

“Anne is a bouncer,” John frowns. “She’s never worked at the _Walrus_. How the fuck do you even know about her?”

“I ran the place,” Flint retorts. “I know _everything_.”

 _Oh_. Yeah, okay, that’s fair. Anne does show up consistently at the end of nightshifts to pick up Max, so they can go home together. Still, it feels bizarre that Flint knows about the people on the periphery of John’s life, while all that John knows is that Flint has a bald friend who likes to kiss him on the cheek and who’s known him for two decades.

“You friends with her?”

“She tolerates me,” John replies. “Why?”

“Tell her she should visit Jack again,” Flint replies with a glint in his eye. He seems to be enjoying the knowledge he wields, and John can’t help but be a little bit turned on by it. “That’s your ride.”

“Let me get this straight,” John says. “You have a, what, friend? Who is friends with… my friend’s girlfriend?”

“I’m truly impressed at your display of mental gymnastics,” Flint retorts drily, but a hint of a smile tugs at his mouth nonetheless. “Yes, it seems that way. Wait, you call Max a friend?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Hard to imagine her as anyone’s friend, is all,” Flint shrugs. “Though of course, if it’d have to be anyone, it’d be you.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“It means you’re both too intelligent to work in a twenty-four-hour diner,” Flint replies. “Not to mention your penchant of being an absolute pain in my arse.”

“What!?” John protests. “Max I get, but when have I ever been anything but good to you?”

They laugh, dragging up old conversations, and one point, John’s shirtless images get mentioned. By this point, they both have a steaming plate of food. They have also both finished their second bottle of beer. Flint has switched to a glass of scotch, while John has gone for red wine. He’s well aware he’s playing a dangerous game, but dear _god_ , does he want to play.

“Okay,” he says between bites of his bolognese, “explain to me how my selfies are an affront to you. Do you have something against more than one nipple on display? Is it like a Victorian thing, where women can only show so much ankle before being declared harlots?”

Flint nearly chokes on his risotto at that. “I may be old, but I’m not _that_ old,” he laughs.

“You dress historically, though!” John points out. “Don’t tell me that shirt is available on your local high street!”

The billowing shirt has since the start of the call been opened further around the collar, too, in an attempt to combat the sweltering warmth of the kitchen. It has given John an amazing little window to Flint’s collarbone, more freckles, and even some chest hair, when the connection gets good enough for it not to be a pixelated blur. It’s almost more mouth-watering than his dinner. Perhaps John is the Victorian gentleman between them, to be so stirred by such little flesh on display.

“It’s actually part of my work outfit,” Flint admits then, and John’s eyes widen.

“What?” he asks, baffled. “Seriously, what do you _do_ out there?”

“A bit of everything, really,” Flint shrugs. “Clean up the beach, work in the tourist shop or the café. I give snorkelling lessons, too. But this outfit is for the storytelling centre.” He gives a bashful little smile then, and John honest-to-god _melts_. “I entertain kids, and I get to dress up for it. Full eighteenth-century regalia. The fearsome pirate, Captain Flint. That’s me during the day, every Monday, Wednesday and Saturday.”

John is gaping at him now. This man plays dress-up for kids?

“Wait, so did you name your character after your Instagram handle, or…” is all he can think of asking, and Flint rolls his eyes.

“Christ, no. It’s an old story they like to tell in my family. He was a real person, or so we think,” he tells John. “Plus, I was an actual captain myself.”

“Wait, you were a captain?” John blinks. Flint is becoming more and more of an enigma.

“Years of military service,” Flint nods. “I was honourably discharged and never looked back.”

“Instead you decided to run a diner and then buggered off to a beach to entertain snotty, sand-covered little kids.”

“Best decision I’ve ever made.” And his smile tells John that Flint means it, so he can’t possibly hold it against him. He hides his smile in a sip of wine.

They talk, and they talk, and then they talk some more. It’s a fucking miracle they find so much to talk about, really. By the time they’re both done with dinner, it’s 9.30PM and they have definitely had too much alcohol.

“Oh, oh!” John exclaims. “You need to meet my flatmate.”

“I know who Randall is, John,” Flint laughs, and he sounds so goddamn _soft_ , John just wants to reach through the screen and pet him.

“No, you bastard, my other flatmate. Meet Toast. She’s a bitch, but she tolerates me, so that means we’re friends.” He flips the camera to show Toast in the middle of cleaning her less-than-sanitary parts. Flint snorts so loud she actually freezes mid-lick, tongue sticking out just the tiniest bit. When she snaps out of it, she hisses loudly and retreats to Randall’s bedroom.

“Up until a point, that is,” John says sheepishly. “I don’t think I’ve ever dared pet her, but honestly, that’s fine by me.”

“You have tragically low standards when it comes to friendship,” Flint tells him, and John sighs dramatically.

“Tell me about it. First Max, now Toast… What’s next, calling _you_ my friend?”

They both fall silent for a moment, and when John looks at his phone, he sees something almost akin to vulnerability on Flint’s face. “Yes,” he says softly, and he can see the palpable relief wash over Flint, even if the man tries to hide it. They’re both drunk by now, and neither of them have the energy or ability remaining to keep their emotions hidden. “I would call you my friend.”

He picks up his glass, which still contains some of the last dregs of his wine bottle, and with it and his phone he moves to his bedroom. John wants to be comfortable, and he wants intimacy, and there is no better place than his own bed. It’s a sleepover, after all.

“Would you?” he asks as he flops back onto his bed, hair fanning around him. “Call me your friend, I mean?” He lifts his bad leg up with a groan, and for a moment he catches Flint’s breath hitching. _Interesting._

“At this point, I would,” Flint admits. He too gets up from his kitchen table now, moving to his own bedroom. John catches a glimpse of it, and he spots seashells, exposed beams, an old-fashioned captain’s coat, and a designated Clothes Chair, before Flint settles onto his bed, his back against the wall.

“Fuck yeah, that’s one point to me, zero to your bald-ass friend.”

“I beg your pardon?” Flint asks, that goddamn eyebrow raised, and John hates how good it looks on him.

“The one you pretend is an acquaintance,” John reminds him. “You know, the, that one, the guy who kissed you on your birthday.”

Flint bursts out laughing at that. “What, Hal?” The camera shakes a little, and John smirks. There really is nothing better than Flint laughing. “Yeah, you may have a bit of an advantage on him. What do you mean though, kissing me?”

“You know,” John says, feeling his face heat. “The photo of you and him.”

“Oh,” Flint breathes. “You know, I’d almost wager you sound jealous.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“No?” He raises his eyebrow again, a toothy smirk spreading on his face. “So I haven’t been reading the situation wrong?”

John just glares at him. “You know,” he retorts, “we never did establish what you have against my selfies.”

 _Gotcha_ , he thinks as Flint’s expression sours. Two can play this game.

“You know,” Flint tells him, his voice dropping as it turns more serious, “maybe it _is_ the gratuitous nudity.”

John snorts. “So you _are_ a prude?”

“No,” Flint says in that same low voice, his head leaning back a little and his eyes growing hooded. “No, I’d say the issue is rather that you’re on display for _everyone_.”

John’s jaw falls slack, a low huff escaping him when the words hit him like a punch in the gut. “Captain, don’t tell me _you’re_ jealous?” he asks, and he can’t help but smile just a little.

Okay, so perhaps this isn’t the deep emotional conversation he had in mind when he suggested the sleepover. But the way Flint’s pupils dilate a little in the dimness of his bedside light at John calling him _captain_ is infinitely better.

“Perhaps we should just consider ourselves even,” Flint responds, “and move on from there.”

John hums, the sound low and reverberating in his chest. He wishes Flint were here to feel it, to press himself against him. From what little John has seen, the man has a solid, muscular body, as befitting an ex-military man.

He wonders if he can get the man to show more.

“Well, we _could_ move on,” he says, “but I need to know if this will be an issue. I post more daring selfies regularly; I’d say it’s key to growing out my following. Where would you want me to draw the line?”

Flint narrows his eyes a little, clearly catching on to the game John is playing.

“How about some collarbone?” John asks, and he’s never been more grateful to wear a button-up shirt than when he pops open the collar, letting out a genuine little sigh of relief when a breeze comes in through the window and brushes against his exposed skin. The summer night is sweltering, and John is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Flint refuses to be so easy though as to show any signs of the sight getting to him.

“I’d say collarbone should be excusable,” he replies, keeping his voice level. “You want to give your followers _something_ , after all.”

John smirks. “You’re right. What about chest hair, though? Is that an issue?” He pops open a few more buttons, and Flint’s nostrils honest-to-god _flare_ when the line between his pectorals comes into view, along with the dark smattering of curls that cover them.

“Hmm, I’d say that’s still doable,” Flint replies, “though we’re getting into more dangerous territory.”

“And what would you consider _dangerous_ , captain?” John asks, blinking innocently. Girls always loved his long eyelashes, and from Flint’s reaction, he gauges the boys might too – though of course, it could be a reaction to calling him _captain_ again. “Is it one nipple?” He tugs the shirt open further, and Flint’s breath hitches. “Two? But then, what shirt allows just the nipples to be out but not the rest? It’s nearly impossible, if not ridiculous at the least. No, if I am to bear my nipples, I might as well bare the rest.”

He sits up briefly to take off his shirt, shaking out his curls. He can see in the small preview on his screen how his own bedside light casts a glow over his body, how the thin sheen of sweat highlights every swell and dip of his muscles. His sessions at the gym have paid off, and he knows he looks lean, broad-shouldered, _good_. Flint seems to agree.

“You know, I’m starting to feel awfully self-conscious,” John tells him earnestly then. “Show me, captain, what would you find an acceptable amount of skin to show on your private little corner of the internet?”

Flint minutely shakes his head with a huff before placing his phone down on the bunched-up sheets. For a second, John has the delightful view of Flint’s crotch, clothed in period breeches. He notices Flint is half-hard, and his breath hitches. He only barely catches Flint taking off his shirt.

“Of course,” Flint says when he picks up his phone again, “I have far less people observing me in my ‘corner of the internet’, but I would say this is appropriate. One will have to be bare-chested every now and then when spending their living days on the beach; I’d say this is appropriate, wouldn’t you?”

John doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stares.

Oh, Flint isn’t muscular; he is _built_. While John has broad shoulders, Flint seems to be broad everywhere, only tapering slightly at the waist. His shoulders look corded, his arms strong. The only soft part of his upper body seems his belly, though John would never call it fat. His hair, which was tied back into a half-ponytail, has come undone somewhat, with some strands hanging over his forehead and into his eyes, while others brush against the top of his neck. John wants to brush his hair aside, put his mouth on those tendons there and _lick_.

“Well, of course a bare chest should be, _fine_ , I suppose,” he manages hoarsely, his mouth dry. “But really, would you only show the top half?”

Flint smirks, then heightens the angle a little until John can see where his breeches begin. “Oh, those sit _criminally_ high,” he blurts out, and Flint is an actual fucking saint for not laughing, but instead undoing the buttons so that John can finally see the barely defined V of his hips, the ever so faint ginger trail leading down into briefs.

“Tell me to stop at any point,” Flint breathes, his eyes dark and piercing on the camera. John huffs.

“Not in a million years,” he breathes.

It’s clearly the permission Flint has been waiting for. He trails his free hand along his torso, letting his fingers explore the faint lines and slope of his muscles that John so desperately wants to trace with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. “I was hoping,” Flint mutters, “practically _begging_ whoever might listen that I was reading you right. That you were not just being a little shit, but actually flirting. God, I just couldn’t believe…”

“That I might be into it?” John breathes, and Flint huffs as his fingers brush against his nipple. “You have no idea how much I’ve been battling myself on this, on what to do, on the boundaries. I’ve felt so goddamn conflicted.”

He lets out a breathy laugh when Flint’s eyes meet his, uncertain and wavering. “I’m certainly not conflicted about _this_ ,” he tells Flint, who swiftly relaxes a little. “God, you look gorgeous – please don’t stop…”

Flint huffs, shaking his head a little. “You _are_ a disaster,” he mutters. “But fuck, Silver, you’re gorgeous, you know that?” John smirks, because yeah, he’s not entirely unaware, but Flint continues. “I see your fucking post-workout pictures, your morning selfies, and I just want to…”

He falls quiet for a moment. “Don’t you dare,” John tells him. “You can’t just retreat now. _Tell me._ ” He’s slightly taken aback by his own commanding tone, the low growl in his voice. But Flint’s pupils blow wide, and John knows he’s hit the right note.

“I want to _bury_ myself in you,” Flint breathes.

John is quiet for a moment, unable to speak; his breath has been stolen straight from his lungs. But when he tries, all that comes out is a soft, tortured groan.

“I want to hide you away from the world,” Flint continues, his hands no longer wavering across his body, and John isn’t sure how much he can take of this. “I want to have you to myself, study you up close, take you in – all of you.” The look in his eyes has grown to a frightening intensity, and though John still has his trousers on, which have grown painfully tight, he feels naked. Like a deer in headlights, he’s frozen under Flint’s admission.

There is a moment where they just look at each other, breathing heavily as if they’ve physically sprinted to this point. They’re on the edge, John knows. He can sense it, can feel himself losing balance as the alcohol thrums in his veins and the darkness of the abyss calls to him from below.

And he’s terrified.

Flint seems to notice it, or senses _something_ at least, for his expression shifts then, like shutters falling behind his eyes. John instantly finds himself breathing easier again, his constricted chest loosening as they step away from the ledge.

“I want to see all of you,” Flint says then, and rather than raw honesty, it is a command this time.

“Yeah,” John breathes, scrambling to unbutton his jeans. This he can do. He drops the phone on his covers, knowing full well that Flint can only see the ceiling right now, but he’s not as suave as the other man, especially not while he’s drunk like this, and he doesn’t have the patience to continue his striptease from earlier. He takes care not to have his leg come into view as he wriggles out of his trousers and briefs, keeps it out of frame as he takes off the prosthetic. When he sits back up, he notices Flint has taken the opportunity to join him. They are now both sitting on their respective beds, naked as the day they were born.

“…So,” John says intelligently, and for a moment the atmosphere between them shifts again as they both grow a little awkward. “You done this before?”

“No,” Flint responds after a brief hesitation, a huff of laughter in his words. “I have not.”

“Oh, good,” John exhales, to which Flint raises an eyebrow. “Just, means we’re on the same line here.”

“And how do you suggest we proceed?”

John worries his lip for a moment, but then, in a moment fuelled by the liquid courage in his veins, he blurts out: “Show me your cock.”

Flint’s eyebrow somehow raises further. But he holds John’s gaze steadily, and then he slowly angles his camera down, giving John full view of his crotch.

He’s only half-hard; his cock lies at an angle against his muscular thigh, nestled in curls as red as the rest of his hair. The image is a little grainy, but John can make out that Flint is thick and uncut. He lets out a low groan as his own cock twitches at the sight. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“Silver,” Flint says, his voice low and pressing. John notices the loss of his first name, an added sense of distance, and he only allows himself to feel the briefest twinges of grief. “Don’t make me sit here by myself.”

John wets his lips, nods. He then angles his own phone lower. He’s harder than Flint, his cock darker and seemingly a little longer too.

“What, you tan everywhere?” Flint asks, and John snorts.

“We can’t all be pale gingers.”

Flint only hums at that. His eyes are dark and hooded, and as the silence stretches, John feels the anticipation rising.

“Touch yourself,” Flint says then. John lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, and he does as Flint says.

He slowly lets his fingers run along the length of his shaft, which quickly starts to stiffen further under his administrations. He lets out a quiet noise at the light teasing skitter of his fingers, a muscle in his thigh visibly twitching. Flint hums again, and John can see him grow harder too.

“That’s beautiful,” Flint mutters. “Does it feel good?”

“Yeah,” John breathes. “Feels – _god_ , Flint, having you watch me, telling me what to do…”

“You like being told what to do?” Flint asks, a glimmer in his eye. John chuckles.

“Don’t get too many ideas,” he says as his fingers continue to draw lazy patterns along his shaft. “I like disobeying just as much.”

But Flint smirks, baring his teeth like a shark, and suddenly John feels both a little terrified and incredibly turned on.

“Grip it a little tighter,” Flint orders him then. The smirk melts away, and he looks deadly serious. “Just grip it. Don’t move.”

John obeys without a second thought, and it really is scary how easily it happens. He blames his malleability on the alcohol. His hips twitch a little at the sudden pressure, and he groans.

“Not too tightly,” Flint warns him. “Start slow.”

“Don’t leave me hanging here, Flint,” John tells him. “As much as I’m enjoying this, I don’t want to be the only one getting fucked here.”

He can tell Flint has to hold back a strangled sound at that, and he smirks a little, feeling some sense of accomplishment. He hates the idea of being completely at the man’s mercy. He decides then that it’ll be his life goal to rile Flint up; to break through that stoic façade of sarcasm and snark in any way possible, whether it is to make him laugh freely or cry out John’s name as he comes.

“Alright,” Flint responds, “equal footing, didn’t you say?”

“That’s right.”

Flint nods thoughtfully, then reaches out of shot briefly, giving John a beautiful view of his side muscles stretching across his ribs. When he returns, his hand is glistening wetly, and he wraps it around his cock with a satisfied groan.

John feels his jaw drop. “You fucker,” he says weakly. “That’s cheating. You never told me to get any lube.”

“I can’t tell you to do everything,” Flint responds, and the bastard is enjoying this. “You could’ve thought of it yourself.”

John glares at him through the camera, then drops the phone on his bed again. He quickly rolls over to the edge of his bed to rummage in his nightstand drawer before returning with a bottle of his own lube. When he returns to his phone, his fingers are dripping with it. He quickly returns his grip to his cock, letting out a hiss at the sudden contact and pressure.

“Well done,” Flint teases, but John ignores him.

“You gonna tell me what’s next?” he says, and the look Flint sends him is just great, irritation and arousal mixing in his gaze.

“No,” he replies.

“ _No_?”

Flint smiles then. “I’m going to show you.”

John feels his breath falter as he watches Flint slowly, ever so slowly, start jacking himself off. He takes in every squeeze, every twist in his wrist, every flick at his slit and tug at his foreskin. “Jesus fuck,” he breathes, and Flint lets out a huff of laughter.

“Your turn,” he says, and John quickly follows his example.

It’s a little different from how he usually works himself over, and because of that, it almost feels like someone else is touching him. It feels good, he realises; slower than he’d usually like, but he gets to savour every tug, every squeeze. His hips jerk again when he mimics Flint in lightly drawing the edge of his nail along a particularly sensitive spot, and he lets out a shocked moan.

Flint’s eyes snap to him like a predator’s, and he feels frozen, a mouse under the gaze of a snake getting ready to strike.

“Do that again,” Flint orders, and he does, letting out another drawn out moan. Flint mimics him now, a low rumble gathering in his chest at their shared pleasure. “Fuck, Silver, you sound incredible.”

“Flint,” John breathes, and that predatory look is back, hooded and dangerous.

“What is it, Silver?” Flint presses. “What do you want? Tell me.”

“I want it faster,” John tells him. “Rougher. Just a little.”

Flint smiles, leaning back. “Set the pace,” he says then, placing control in John’s hands.

And John does. He drags the calluses of his palms along his cock, knowing the more sensitive spots of his shaft intimately. He tugs a little more ferociously, and when Flint mirrors him, the man lets out a strangled groan.

“Oh, _fuck_ –”

“Let me hear you,” John tells him, and he nearly laughs when Flint digs his teeth into his lip to prevent himself from biting back a snarky reply.

“You bastard,” Flint manages, and okay, John has to let out a low chuckle at that.

“Enjoying it, captain?”

The moment of triumph grows cold when he sees that dangerous look return. Oh, he’s in for it now.

Flint takes back control when he breaks his mirroring pattern. His fingers skirt lower, gently tugging at his balls for a moment, and John knows it’s his turn to follow, so he does, a thrill coursing through him as he tries to figure out where this is going.

Then, Flint’s hand slips lower, and he has to lean forward and adjust his camera angle a little so John can still see what he is doing. His mouth goes dry as he watches Flint skirt a finger along the edge of his rim.

“Fuck, Flint, you don’t mean –”

“You new to this?”

“I mean…” _Yes_ , he doesn’t say. He’s never been quite that courageous, not yet. He’s still figuring out the whole sexuality thing, and this is as-of-yet unchartered territory. It terrifies him a little, if he’s honest.

But Flint pushes gently, the lube still dripping from his fingers easing the way, and he lets out a low, choked groan. John feels as if the air is punched from his lungs as he watches this man, rugged, sharp, bitter and with an emotional wall to rival China, slowly finger his own ass open.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, reverent.

He watches Flint’s face carefully, but there is no sign of pain or discomfort. He supposes Flint is used to this, must be more comfortable and perhaps a lot more experienced with the whole male attraction thing.

He looks beautiful, John realises. The angle is awkward and his face is barely in view, but John can just make out the fluttering of his eyelids, the way his upper lip curls up, in pleasure rather than disdain. He can see his chest rising and falling, faster and deeper as he fucks himself further.

“I don’t expect you to mirror me in this,” Flint says then, and John is flooded with relief. He grins, but it’s more like gritting his teeth with the strain of fucking himself. “You should do this yourself, when you’re ready,” he says.

The words somehow go straight to John’s cock, and he groans, gripping it again and jacking himself off with enthusiasm.

“You need to take your time,” Flint tells him, somehow still fucking coherent. “Explore the area around it.” It’s almost laughable how his movements contrast his words, his finger pumping in and out of his hole with force. “You’re careful, and you’re slow, until you’re relaxed enough to push in –”

He seems to have hit a sensitive spot, as he throws his head back with a hoarse moan, the hair that isn’t sticking to his forehead with sweat moving and catching in the dim light. John’s hand speeds up, and he lets out hitched moans of his own as he feels himself drawing closer to the edge.

“You’ll find that spot,” Flint tells him, and his voice is _wrecked_. “You’ll find your prostate, and you’re _gone_ , you’ll never look back. God, Silver – you would love getting your ass fucked.”

John tugs sharply at his cock, and with a cry, he suddenly comes. He spurts all over himself, come hitting him on his thighs, his chest. He can hear the slick noises of Flint plunging into himself a few more times, but then he too comes with a startled cry. If John listens closely, he thinks he can almost make out his own name on Flint’s lips.

They lie panting in the dim light for a while, coming down from their respective orgasms. When John finally lifts his phone to look at Flint again, he sees they both look equally blissed out.

“Not bad for our first time,” John mutters. Flint huffs.

“You should get cleaned up,” he grunts in reply.

John draws up his eyebrows. “Really? You’re going to try and take care of me from a distance?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Flint stills, and the sight of those shutters coming down behind his eyes again hurts worse than John could have anticipated. “Well, I’m sorry for being thoughtful,” Flint snaps, and John scrambles to sit up.

“No, that’s not… It’s nice. Sweet.”

Flint’s eyes snap to his, and his voice turns mocking.

“Well, I’m glad you find me _sweet_ ,” he spits. John is baffled. What is he meant to say?

“Aren’t you?” he tries. “Come on, Flint –”

But Flint closes his eyes at that, and John knows he’s lost.

“Goodnight, Silver,” Flint says, and before John can respond, he’s hung up.

For a moment, John feels numb. He’s a little in shock, really. Where did that go wrong? What did he do? What did he say?

And then, the hurt sets in, picking at the seams that hold him together and tearing a hole in him. He feels hollow all of a sudden, aching and sticky and gross. When he inhales, his breath hitches, and he furiously brings his fist down on the mattress, willing back the tears threatening to well up.

 _Fucking pathetic_ , he thinks. But in his head, he can still hear Flint’s voice, hoarse yet so clear. Crying out in ecstasy. Crying out his name.

_John._

They had somehow found themselves back on that edge, he realises. Somewhere near the end – after the end – the filth had turned to honesty, and John had made a mockery of it. He had watched Flint stand on the edge of that abyss that they were meant to dive into together, and he had turned around and walked away.

He suddenly wishes he’d just talked about his feelings instead.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mood of the previous chapter:  
> 
> 
> Okay but in all seriousness, thank you so much for the positive feedback. I had a _lot_ of fun writing that chapter, as you can imagine, and it was a delight to see you all enjoy reading it. This next one should make up for the previous one's angsty ending a little.

When Max sees the kicked puppy look on John’s face during their next shift’s break, she lets out a long-suffering sigh before sinking down into a chair beside him. “Alright, spill. Is it your man?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Max snorts at that. She grabs his cup of coffee, ignoring his protests to take a large sip. “You’re full of shit, John. If I’m going to play your therapist, the least amount of payment I demand is your coffee.”

“Get your own,” John grumbles, but he makes no move to steal his cup back from her, and she knows she’s won this round, smirking triumphantly. “Whatever. Yes, it’s ‘my man’.”

“Lover’s tiff?”

He huffs. “You know what? I have no fucking clue. As far as I’m aware, I did nothing wrong.”

She raises one eyebrow that says, _you and all men_ , but by some miracle she manages not to comment. Instead, she asks: “What happened?”

“We had sex.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Over facetime,” he quickly clarifies. “You got experience with that?”

“I have never been more than a half hour drive from my girlfriend for more than a few days at a time, so no,” she replies a little smugly.

“Great, so you don’t know the protocols either.”

“Just tell me what fucking happened, John.”

He throws his hands up. “I don’t know, I told you!” he replies. “One moment we’re basking in the afterglow, the next he hangs up on me!”

Max lets out another long-suffering sigh at that. “And is there anything you said between those moments?” she asks. John shrugs.

“Nothing incriminating, I wouldn’t think, no matter what you might think of me,” he replies. “He told me to get cleaned up. He was nice about it, too.”

“And?”

“And I told him I thought it was sweet.”

Max gives him a withering look. “You mocked him for trying to take care of you?”

“I – no! I was being nice! But suddenly nothing I said was right.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want you to point out that he was being sweet? Was it just sex to him? To you?”

“Jesus, I –” He drags a hand down his face. His stubble is growing out, he notices absentmindedly. He doesn’t quite remember the last time he shaved. “I don’t know,” he admits, and the exhaustion of the day before seeps into his voice. He couldn’t sleep after Flint hung up on him, and spent the entire next day with intrusive thoughts milling around his mind, each new thought assaulting him crueller than the one before. “It wasn’t for a moment, but then it was. And then it wasn’t again, I fear.”

Max knocks back the coffee before shaking her head, dark curls falling down over her shoulders. “You are a disaster,” she tells him, and the words remind him so strongly of Flint, the way he said it, a mix of snark and fondness, it makes John wince. “ _Talk to him._ Ask him what you did wrong.”

“He hung up on me, remember? I don’t think he wants to talk to me right now.”

“Then stop thinking,” Max tells him as she gets up and ties her apron back around her waist. “You cannot know what every man on earth is thinking, John. Stop trying, and just call him. I swear, it’s like running a kindergarten,” she mutters as she disappears back inside. John glares after her, but he doesn’t have the energy to mean it.

_Fine._ Sure. He can call Flint. Talking is what they do best.

Though perhaps it’s better if he tries in the morning, after his shift.

* * *

Flint doesn’t pick up.

It doesn’t surprise John, but it still hurts. He flings his phone onto the bed, swearing loudly.

“Pig-headed enigmatic fucking bastard, _fucking talk to me_!” he shouts. He kicks at his bed, but in a moment of sweet denial, he forgets the leg he balances on isn’t real. He is quickly brought back down to earth when he literally comes crashing down, narrowly avoiding splitting his head open against the bedframe.

Of course, Toast decides that all this noise is terribly interesting, and when she comes to check on him, he can only sigh in irritation at the sight of her. She casually saunters over and starts licking his forehead.

“I hate you,” he mutters, but it comes out half-hearted. Still, he’s not about to reach out and scratch her behind the ears. He knows better than that. “What do you think?” he asks her. “Am I going to hear from him again?”

Toast loses interest then, clearly less fond of John when he’s talking. He can’t say he blames her. With a grunt he manages to pull himself upright and onto the bed, where he rolls up one of his jean legs to take off the prosthetic. His stump had to support all his weight out of nowhere, and now the muscles are throbbing and twinging. Just what he needed.

He reaches for his phone, and on impulse decides to message Max.

_@longsilver: hey, can you ask anne about her friend jack?_

_@madamemaxine: sure_

_@madamemaxine: she’s asking what the fuck you want_

_@longsilver: next time she visits him, I want a ride_

_@madamemaxine: she says sure_

_@madamemaxine: next week work for you?_

_@longsilver: yeah whatever. thanks_

_@madamemaxine: np. Can’t wait to hear of your road trip adventure when you get back_

_@longsilver: if we don’t kill each other on the way that is_

_@madamemaxine: she likes you_

_@longsilver: *tolerates_

_@longsilver: now who’s full of shit_

He smiles. His friendship with Max might not be the most conventional, but he likes it that way.

He just hopes Flint will start talking to him again before he heads down.

* * *

Flint does not, in fact, start talking to him again. John has left him no messages this time; if Flint wants to talk to him, he’ll do so when he feels like it, John assumes. It would’ve been nice to be able to ask him at least if it’s okay that he’s coming down, but now he’s going to have to just show up unannounced like a right bastard.

He realises last minute that he can give Flint at least some form of a head’s up, and that is by making a post. He manages to convince Anne to lean against her vintage convertible with him, their pose suave as he snaps a quick selfie. _Road trip to the southern coast_ , he labels it, knowing that if Flint sees it, it’ll be enough to clue him in. It’s not even that bad a picture, John muses as he posts it. Anne even manages to smile a little from under the rim of her hat. Still, his heart is pounding in his chest. God, Flint is gonna be _pissed_.

The ride is meant to be about three-and-a-half hours. John being John, he manages to chatter up a storm. At first, the atmosphere between him and Anne is awkward and tense. They’ve never spent time together without at least Max there to ease the way, and John can tell Anne is not necessarily a fan of the talking types. But John is good at this, knows just what to say and how to say it. He talks about small things, about stuff they spot along the way, things she doesn’t need to answer to. When he shows genuine delight and excitement at the sight of a badger quickly diving out of the hedges to cross the road, it seems he’s cracked something within Anne.

She smiles more after that, and slowly but surely, she starts talking back. John learns that Anne grew up on a farm in Surrey, where she’d helped her parents birth calves from a very young age. Badgers and foxes aren’t new to her like they are to city-slicker John, so it’s nice for her to see someone get excited over them. He learns that she’d inherited the old leather hat she always wears from her dad, who had been an old Australian cattle wrangler. He learns that she’d met Jack, the man she’s going to visit today, on a day trip to Brighton when they were kids, and they’d instantly become best friends.

Slowly but surely, they manage to fill the silence together, and John feels incredibly accomplished for drawing Anne out of her shell. Once you get past the rugged, gruff exterior, she turns out to be rather nice. He can imagine her so clearly; little Anne with the flaming red hair, arms a matching red as she helps a cow with a particularly difficult birth, her small and delicate hands able to reach where the vet’s can’t. Her eyes huge and excited as the calf enters the world with one final tug. He wonders why she ever moved to the city; the mental image he is forming of her seems so much more natural. Then again, she does make a fabulous bouncer too, seeming perfectly well-adapted to the city life.

The hedges boxing them in slowly start shrinking, making it possible to see the landscape roll by. There are sheep and villages, fields and hills, all baking under the late summer sun. Eventually, John can see, just beyond the furthest fields and over the edge of the hills, a sliver of blue. They’re approaching the coast.

Down here, the climate is even more temperate than back home. The Channel Islands are classified as having a subtropical climate, and most of the limewashed houses along the south coast have some form of small palm tree in the front yard. It’s oddly bizarre to see England this way, but it makes John feel like he’s on a proper holiday. He can almost forget what he’s on his way to. Or _who_.

The population is sparse here, and even camp sites and trailer parks are few and far between. _Leave it to Flint to find the least touristy beach to inhabit_ , John thinks, as if he knows the man.

Since Anne is dropping John off at Flint’s place, Jack has agreed to meet them at the beach to make things easier. Anne pulls into the small parking lot out by the dunes. There are a couple more cars there of other beachgoers, but it’s clear this is not one of England’s most popular beaches, despite the fine white sand. The parking lot itself is not much more than stamped-down dirt, the paths along and over the dunes natural sand. John groans inwardly at the sight. He can walk on sand, it just… isn’t fun. He should’ve known though, considering Flint literally lives on the beach. But perhaps it’s not too much to ask for a wooden walkway? Oh, it is? Okay.

When they make their way to the top of the dune, they can see down onto the beach with ease. There are a few scattered buildings with large signs indicating their function; a restaurant, a toilet block, wooden dressing cubicles that look like they date back to the Edwardian era, a lifeguard tower, a biological research centre, and some scattered shops and cabins. Almost all the buildings stand on stilts to protect them from the tides and stormy weather. John briefly wonders which of the buildings is Flint’s home.

They slowly walk past most of the buildings in amicable silence, soaking up the sunshine and the sound of the waves, seagulls, and squealing kids. They eventually leave behind the main part of the beach, making their way to coarser sand and pebbles. The last building they passed, the biological centre, seems to have functioned like some sort of border they crossed as they went from public to private land.

Out ahead, John spots a couple of large pieces of driftwood, bleached white by the seawater. He can just make out the silhouettes of three people in the early evening light using the trunks as benches, though one silhouette stands out in particular, just for its sheer strangeness in shape.

As John and Anne approach, the figures rise, and John has to squint against the great glowing sun behind them to make them out. The strangely shaped figure is the only one to make its way to them, and Anne laughs.

“Jack,” she says, leaving John behind to go give the man a hug.

Jack is perhaps everything Anne isn’t. From top to bottom, every inch of him baffles John. The shaggy eighties mullet, the little sunglasses with extra panels on the side, the sideburns cutting across his cheekbones like he shaved them with a ruler, the one shark tooth earring, the moustache. Then there’s the hot pink feather boa, which is what threw John off when trying to figure out his silhouette from a distance. The pale blue mesh top is sheer enough to give John a clear view of the man’s nipples, and below that, he’s wearing Hawaiian flower covered swimming trunks. The bizarreness ends with black painted toenails sticking out of his hot pink flipflops. The toenails match his fingernails, and the flipflops his boa. John would love to form at least some conclusion on whether the man has handsome features or not, but honestly, he couldn’t fucking tell you if he was forced to at gunpoint with everything that is going on.

“Anne,” the man laughs, and he swoops her off her feet. _How did these two become friends?_ John wonders. Perhaps he’ll hear the story at some point during his stay. Behind them, a second figure makes their way over, and it turns out to be a man with cheekbones John is sure could cut diamonds. He looks rugged and gruff, despite the khaki swimming trunks, navy blue shirt – which is completely unbuttoned to reveal actually _glistening_ abs, _what the fuck_ – and long hair falling over his shoulders, half done up in intricate braids. He too smiles at the sight of Anne, but when his gaze meets John’s, it clouds over, despite the radiant smile John tries to send his way.

“This the fucker Flint’s been talking about?” he asks, voice even gruffer than his expression, if that’s even possible. John swallows. _Oh dear._

“Don’t go starting fights, Charles,” Jack chastises him, now one arm slung across Anne’s shoulders. “You’re only going to get bloody, and then I’m left with the impossible task of trying to wash it out of your clothes.”

The man – Charles – actually looks sheepish at that, and John is reeling with it. This guy is dating the man with an entire flamingo around his neck? Who _are_ these people? And how the fuck does Flint know them?

“John Silver,” he decides to say instead, sticking out his hand. It’s the polite thing to do, after all. Charles doesn’t seem to care, glaring at his outstretched hand, but Jack clears his throat and reaches out to shake it, even taking off his glasses with his free hand to look him in the eye.

“Jack Rackham,” he answers, and John can’t figure out if he sounds polite, haughty, smug or cautious. Perhaps it is somehow all at the same time. The man seems to be able to wear his clashing clothes without problem, so why not emotions? “Don’t mind my partner here. He’s feeling rather protective of James right now.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Well, I thought I’d see what all the fuss is about, first,” he replies. The smile he throws John is definitely a calculated one, and though John feels like cattle inspected for auction, he can’t help but begrudgingly respect the man. The way he looks at John makes him think he’s sharp, intelligent. John always respects an intelligent man, and even more so when there are so brazenly queer.

“So what’s the verdict?” John asks, slightly dreading the answer.

“That you’re a cheeky bastard who likes to push his luck,” Jack replies, and beside him, Anne snorts. “You know, James is not happy about you coming down like this.”

“No, I didn’t imagine he would be,” John winces. “But what else could I do? He shut me out completely.”

“You could’ve given him some fucking space,” Charles growls, but Jack places a placating hand on his bicep.

“Yes, darling, he probably should’ve, but I have to say, sometimes that man needs confronting instead.” He gives John a small smile, and this time it feels genuine. “From what I hear, there is no-one better to confront him with the truth than you.”

John honest-to-god _blushes_ at that. “How much does he talk about me, exactly?” he tries, but Jack only raises an eyebrow.

“I wish you the best of luck,” the man tells him, and John’s heart sinks.

“Yeah, something tells me I’ll need it.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think you did the right thing,” Jack says. “The whole long-distance thing makes it far too easy for James to get away with avoiding his feelings. Yes, he’s pissed as all hell with you now, but I’m sure you’ll get through to him. If not…” He gives Charles a little sideways glance. “Well, our sofa bed is big enough for two, so Charles and I can put you up beside Anne if needed.”

The look Charles sends John tells him that he’d better be in dire fucking need if he does come knocking on their door. It’s incentive enough for John to make the best of this attempt to talk things out with Flint, though he supposes he was planning to do that anyway, cheekbone-shaped death threats or no. He swallows and makes his way over to the final remaining silhouette, wishing for all the world Anne could stay and protect him. But he can hear her voice mingle with those of the men as they move away, presumably back to the main beach and past that into the nearby town.

Flint’s expression is drawn and cautious. John would prefer seeing him angry; he would know what to do with that at least. But instead he is faced with all the emotional walls Flint has at his disposal, built up high behind his eyes.

“A warning would have been nice,” the man says when John reaches him. John frowns.

“You didn’t respond to my calls. That post was the best I could do.”

“Why are you here, Silver?”

It feels like a slap in the face, and John needs a moment to recover before he can respond. “Because you and I need to talk. _Clearly_. You told me to come down at some point, so I thought, an open invitation, you know, if he won’t talk to you on the phone then in person is what it has to be –”

“That open invitation was temporarily revoked,” Flint snaps. “Or is me not picking up your calls not a clear enough message?”

“You know what, can I sit down?” John says, and it throws Flint for a moment. “If we’re gonna do this, I’d rather do it sitting if you don’t mind.” He strides over to the driftwood and sinks down with a grunt, massaging his left knee. His muscles are aching with the strain of walking on sand, and he knows it’ll burn later if he can’t rub out the cramps now. Flint follows but doesn’t sit down. Instead he stands in front of John, his arms crossed. There is a muscle in his cheek, right under his nose, twitching in a half-sneer. He’s really pissed, John realises.

“What do you want?” Flint snaps. “Tell me, so we can get this over with and I can send you back with Bonny.”

“You think I’ll make it that easy on you?” John asks, looking up against the sun. Even in his fury, Flint looks beautiful, he realises. The sun makes his red hair glow gold and his freckles stand out against the paleness of his skin. He’s not wearing his work clothes, but rather some black shorts paired with a pale grey T-shirt that almost fits him like a second skin. It is surreal to see him like this, in the flesh. The light haloes around him, and in his righteous fury, John can almost imagine him to be some sort of avenging angel. “I want to talk,” he tells him. “And I won’t move from this fucking trunk until we’ve sorted our shit out.”

Flint’s nostrils flare, but then he exhales, and some of the fight bleeds out of him. He scratches at his eyebrow for a moment before turning on the spot and striding away.

John frowns as he watches him go, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he waits to see what’ll happen. Flint makes his way over to one of the beach’s many stilted cabins, but this one looks different, and not just because it stands away from all the others. It looks more like an actual home rather than just a holiday letting, with a sizeable porch, large French windows and potted lavender under the windowsills. John remembers Flint’s description from a panic-filled night once upon a time, and he knows that is Flint’s home.

Flint disappears inside for a few minutes, but then returns with an armful of beers. John can’t help but agree with that sentiment. A little alcohol certainly won’t hurt to smoothen things between them. Flint drops down onto an adjacent trunk with a grunt, then hands a bottle over to John, who takes it in silence. He cracks it open with his bare hand and takes a deep swig.

“What is it you so desperately wanted to talk about?” Flint asks after taking a swig from his own bottle.

“What are you running away from?” John asks bluntly. Neither of them are in the mood for small talk, so he comes out swinging. Flint winces.

“Do you see me running?”

“You’re shutting me out every chance you get ever since our last call,” John points out. “Not that you’ve had many opportunities. But you’ve certainly not been open with me like you have in the past.”

Flint lets out a laugh, and it is dark and bitter. The sound of it makes John shiver. “I wasn’t exactly giving up all my secrets before,” he says.

“You didn’t have to,” John replies. “But you were comfortable. Open. Vulnerable.”

Flint shoots him a dark look before taking another swig of his beer.

“Don’t give me that,” John snaps. “You called me before anyone else during a panic attack. I have every right to use the word ‘vulnerable’. What the fuck changed, Flint?” The man winces again, but John continues undeterred. “Was it the sex? Or the mutual jerking session, or whatever the fuck it was? Because between the two of us, I expected myself to be the one to be freaked out over that, not you. So what was it?”

“This was a mistake,” Flint says then, softly, avoiding John’s gaze. It hits him like a freight train, knocking the air from him. “All of this.”

John can’t breathe. He feels like there is a large boulder on his chest, crushing him slowly. “Could you be more specific?” he asks, though he doesn’t want to hear the answer.

“You shouldn’t have come,” Flint tells him, and his words are steadier now, his eyes dull. “We should never have…”

“Stop.”

“You asked –”

“And now I’m asking you to stop.” John swallows hard. “Why? Can you tell me that?”

Flint looks up then, and John can see something, a sense of anguish behind those defenses. “I don’t think you can offer what I want. I don’t think you _want_ what I want.”

John feels his jaw almost drop at that.

“You’re joking, right?” he says.

“You panicked the _second_ I made things intimate,” Flint reminds him harshly. “Don’t deny it, Silver. I saw it.”

“If you wanted more, then why continue anyway!?”

“I –” he throws up his hands in frustration, nearly spilling beer over himself. “I was drunk! I wanted you! I wanted – _god_ , why does this have to be so fucking hard!?”

“You think I just wanted casual sex? We were having near-daily domestic mornings!” John lets out a bitter laugh. “Or do you think that’s how I treat all my friends?”

“I don’t know!” Flint snaps back. “I don’t know anything about you, do I!? Not really. I mean, what do I know?”

“More than what Max knows,” John tells him, and his voice quiets with the honesty of it. “Certainly more than Anne. More than Randall, who lives with me. They know things you don’t, but you know things they could never hope to know.”

“Then I don’t –” Flint tries, but he’s at a loss for words, searching and failing to find what he truly wants to express in this moment. “Then why panic?”

“It just…” John sighs harshly. “It was… two sides of the situation colliding. It was too much, too real.” He lets out another bitter laugh. “I’m still trying to figure this all out. God, Flint, you have no idea how much I tie myself up in knots over this shirt – have been since the very beginning. Still am.”

“But how do I know,” Flint starts, but his voice is hoarse, and he has to take a moment to collect himself. “How do I know you want something serious if you don’t even know what you want?”

John thinks for a moment, but then he says: “I’m here, aren’t I?”

And he’s struck by the truth of his words. John has always struggled to commit; to jobs, to places, to people. But the second Flint retreated from him, shut him out, John decided to come down and confront him, to talk through the mess they are in and set things straight. He might not be sure exactly what he is feeling, but he knows that this is telling.

“I want to be here,” he tells Flint, who finally dares to give him a side-glance. “I want to know you.” He swallows heavily then. “I even think… I want you to know me too.” He cracks a half-smile at that. “And trust me when I say that I do not weigh that lightly.”

The look Flint gives him then is hooded. There is a weight to his gaze, pinning John to the driftwood bench and making the sunlit beach feel shaded. It might as well be twilight in this moment, for all he knows.

Finally, Flint sighs. “Stay,” he says. An admission, a defeat. A surrender. “I still need to teach you how to cook, anyway.”

John smiles. The darkness lifts, and he feels lighter with it. “That you do,” he replies. They throw each other a hesitant smile. John knows that in this moment, something new is taking shape. And though he is hesitant, scared even, to know exactly what it’ll be, he is simultaneously eager to find out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm still alive! Writing has slowed down a lot since life hit me with uhh *checks list* well, all the shit. I'm just trying to get by for now, I'll be alright in the end, but until then the updates will be slow and sporadic and for that I apologise. Also this chapter is only mildly beta-ed by myself, so forgive me if it's brief and a little messy.
> 
> Finally, we finally see Flint's home in this chapter! If you find it hard to picture, don't worry, so did I when writing it, so for both my sake and yours, [here's the house as I built it in the Sims](https://queer-crusader.tumblr.com/post/629692233875095552/so-for-my-fic-disconnect-i-was-struggling-to). Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter. And massive thanks for your continued love, support and patience <3 <3

The atmosphere between them remains tentative, and as much as John hates it, he knows that if he’s patient, it’ll get easier between them again. It always has. They stay out on the beach, drinking their beers as they sit on the driftwood, looking out over the ocean. Above them, the summer sun slowly drifts towards the horizon, and when the hue of the sky starts to shift, John is surprised to realise that he is starving. It is so easy to lose track of time during summer evenings. But rather than move inside as the air starts to cool a little, Flint brings more supplies out while instructing John to stack wood for a fire in a shallow pit the benches are circled around.

John may never have been a boy scout, but he’s lit plenty of fires with friends in his youth. He gets to work, glad to be busy with something he knows how to do. Conversation has been a little stunted at best since John forced Flint to come clean, and any distraction is welcome.

Flint returns with a couple of plates, a bowl of marinated meat and vegetable skewers ready to be held over the fire, and a bowl of rice to accompany the skewers. John takes the items from Flint’s had with a nod, and when their fingers brush, it sends a spark up his arm, halting his breath. It’s the first time they’ve ever touched, he realises, and he aches to do it again, to properly feel Flint’s skin; are his hands rough from years of hard work, or does he take care of himself, keep the skin soft? Is there a strength to his touch, or is he gentle?

They eat their meals in silence. It’s a little awkward, but every now and then, John looks up and catches Flint looking at him, searching for something. He doesn’t seem too perturbed by getting caught, so John holds his gaze, lengthening the moment by a few milliseconds each time.

By the time they’ve finished, it’s almost half past eight, and the sky has darkened to a light, bruised purple. All John can hear is the sea, the low crackling of the fire before him and the crickets in the grass nearby. The air feels warm, but the breeze coming from over the waves cools him, and he closes his eyes with a sigh, drinking in the sensation. He’s had a few beers now, and the silence between no longer feels awkward, but rather sated and comforting. He thinks, _it’s easier to talk in the dark like this_ , hearing the gruffness of Flint’s voice in his mind without needing the man to speak the words. Perhaps the same goes for silence; both seem to come easier in the dark.

“You never told me how you met Jack,” he says eventually, breaking the amicable quiet. It’s a peace offering, an easy topic to get them speaking again. The corner of Flint’s mouth curls up, and John knows the offer has been taken.

“I met him through Vane, really,” Flint tells him. “Charles, I mean. Jack’s… I’m half-tempted to call him Jack’s boy toy, but I fear he’d come to kill me in my sleep.”

“You know, I would have pegged Jack to be the one to be anyone’s boy toy, but when looking at them…” John quickly glances around for dramatic effect. “At the risk of also being smothered in my sleep, I would give you that one, yes. The _abs_ on that man, good god. That should be illegal.”

Flint lets out a low chuckle. “Trust me, we’ve tried to get him to cover up, at the expense of all the women and queer men around him. We’re all terribly distracted.”

“No!” John exclaims, affronted. “They should be illegal, yes, but I’m with Vane on this one. They should _not_ be covered up. What’s the saying Anne likes to use so much? Be gay, do crime?”

Flint barks out a laugh at that, nodding. “You’re right,” he says, “how could I forget?” Something shifts in his expression then, a hint of something sombre. John quickly clears his throat.

“And Charles? Vane? How do you know him?”

“Oh,” Flint says as he’s pulled away from whatever memory he’d started to unearth, “we briefly served together.” He straightens up a little, looking into the fire. He doesn’t seem distanced from the memory, but there is still an air of formality around his words, as if any mention of his Navy career causes him to mentally snap to attention. “It was near the end of my service when he joined. Different regiments, but we ran a couple of missions together. When he came home, quite a few years after me, I got him in touch with the same veterans’ centre I was a part of, and now here he is.”

“Do you get along with him?”

Flint lets out an honest laugh at that. “Oh, we used to hate each other’s guts,” he admits, finally finding John’s gaze again in the twilight. The orange light of the flames turns his hair a brilliant copper and his eyes twinkle with mirth, the sight stealing John’s breath away. “We had very opposing ways of looking at things. Vane could only see what benefitted him in the moment while I was constantly looking ahead. It made sense for our ranks – I outranked him quite a bit when he joined, so I held more responsibility. He was a cocky bastard with very little regard for authority. Frankly, how he even made it that far in the Navy is beyond me.” He shakes his head then. “Well, that’s not entirely true. The Navy is desperate for recruits. Anyway, the point is, we disliked each other from the start. It wasn’t really until he saved my life that I started to respect him a little.” He smiles reluctantly. “It turns out that despite everything, we have some overlapping ideals. It’s not like I would have called him a friend, but certainly a respected colleague.”

“And now?” John asks. He’s burning with curiosity; he hasn’t forgotten the look Vane sent him upon their meeting. It’s clear Flint has talked to the man about him.

“He’s part of the inner circle,” Flint shrugs. “It still feels foreign to call him a friend, but something changes when you save each other’s lives. Plus, he lives in town, and I know the man. With how small this place is, I can’t exactly avoid him. So he’s part of the group, you know?”

John shrugs. He supposes it’s a little like Anne; most of the _Walrus_ crew wouldn’t exactly call her a friend, yet she is still invited along to their nights out, and not just because everyone expects her to be there anyway if Max is there. She’s part of the gang. Not inviting her just doesn’t occur to anyone.

“He’s rather protective of you, you know,” he tells Flint. “Seemed ready to throw down with me just over whatever you’d been saying to him before.”

Flint lets out a huff at that, and John watches closely as he starts to fiddle with the rings that adorn his fingers. John hadn’t noticed the jewellery before, but now that Flint’s nervous fiddling draws his attention to them, he has to admit, they suit the man.

“Yes, well, going to war together will do that,” he replies gruffly. “He means well. Which is not something I ever expected to say about him.”

“Sounds like you two went through a lot.”

“Yeah.” Flint clears his throat at that. “It’s baggage.”

It takes John a moment to realise what Flint means, but then he understands. It’s not a remark about Flint’s relationship with Vane – it’s a warning. _I come with baggage._

“Well, I’ve coaxed you through one panic attack, what’s a couple more?” John shrugs, but he makes sure that his expression carries the gravity of his words. The remark hints at a future of permanence, of John sticking around long enough and being close enough to Flint to become his first port of call when times get bad. But as terrified as the permanence of his words makes him feel, he’s serious. He knows how to handle a panicking Flint; he’s had enough trauma-fuelled night terrors of his own. He wants the guy to know he’s not going to run at the first sign of trouble and vulnerability. There was a time where he would – hell, he still might with most people – but not now. Not with Flint. At least, he doesn’t intend to.

_Speaking of…_

“You know, I don’t come without baggage of my own,” he says, weighing his words carefully. The stars are starting to come out above them as the sky deepens in colour, and slowly but surely, John feels less naked in the dark. He’s terrified, yes, but if he’s going to stay the night, there are things that he just won’t be able to hide. So as his confidence and comfort start to overshadow his vulnerability, he reaches down to grab his pant leg and slowly hikes it up. He doesn’t look up to see Flint’s expression, instead keeping his eyes trained on the metal limb that is revealed, glinting in the firelight.

“What – can I ask…” Flint speaks after a pregnant silence. His voice is hoarse with emotion.

“Car accident,” John replies, keeping his tone casual. He carefully dislodges the prosthetic before holding it up against the light, weighing it in his hands.

“When you said you never learned how to drive…”

“I meant I wish I didn’t.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “It’s been over a year. I’ve done my physio, I’m up and about. It’s behind me.”

“Except it isn’t.”

John looks up at that, finally meeting Flint’s gaze. He looks so serious. But there is no pity in his eyes, no sadness. Just understanding.

“I may not have lost a limb, but I’ve seen other men lose them,” he says. “I’ve seen the vets at the centre.”

“I didn’t go to war,” John points out, a little irritated. “I didn’t lose this in some heroic blaze of glory.”

“Neither did they,” Flint snaps. He quiets for a moment, steadying himself, softening his voice. “It’s brutal and it’s messy. And regardless of how they feel about the action in which it happened, the way I see them interact with their missing limbs compared to how I see you right now… I see them reach for it, I see them twitch, I see them forget it’s not there anymore, I’ve seen it all. The way you’re looking at that thing is not that foreign to me, is all I’m saying.”

“But have you shared a bed with them?” John asks. “Have you helped them into the shower?”

Flint falls quiet at that, and John nods. “I thought as much. It’s humiliating, and all the more with –” _with how I lost it_ , he thinks, but that’s not a story for tonight. He’s bared enough of himself, figuratively and literally. He changes his tone then. “Speaking of which, do you have a tub? Showers and I aren’t exactly friends these days.”

Flint holds his gaze for a moment, searching, probing for whatever John is deciding to keep hidden in the dark, but then he seems to let it go. “I do,” he says. “Do you have your stuff? We can get you settled in.”

“You’re not sending me away?”

Flint lets out a long-suffering sigh. “No,” he replies finally. “I suppose I’ll have to just put up with you for now.” He gets up and starts gathering plates and bottles, expertly holding them in a way that shows he did more than just bark orders during his time at the _Walrus_.

John refrains from whooping, feeling like it wouldn’t quite be appropriate right now. He’s all the more grateful he didn’t a moment later, for the shift in his mood would have been all the more apparent when he looks around and realises his bag is nowhere to be found.

“Silver?”

“I, um, seem to have left my stuff in the boot of Anne’s car.”

Flint raises one eyebrow. “Do you want to call her?”

“Something tells me she might eviscerate me. I’ve barely gotten through to her, I’d hate to nip our emerging friendship in the bud. Not to mention they’re probably all drunk out of their minds by now.”

If Flint didn’t have his hands full, he’d be crossing his arms. Instead, he lets out another long-suffering sigh. “Just put your leg back on and help me with these dishes,” he says as he turns around. “We’ll sort something out.”

John hastens to follow, picking up some of the remaining objects littered around the fire. He quickly kicks some sand over the flames to smother them before following Flint across the little stretch of beach and up the wooden stairs that lead up to the cabin. He notices the little open shower beside the stairs, hidden between the stilts that support the cabin, and realises it must be to wash off the sand before going upstairs. Too late now, he supposes.

It does indeed smell like lavender up here, he notes. Lavender and the sea, mixed with the remnants of the fire. Flint has left the front door open for John, who stamps off some of the sand on the welcome mat before making his way inside.

The light radiating from the house’s old bulbs has a warm hue, bringing a soft glow to all the peeling white and blue paint and exposed wood. The place is almost completely open-planned. On his immediate right seems to be the only separate room, which he assumes must be the bathroom. The kitchen is to John’s immediate left, but there is no wall to separate the space from the rest of the cabin, which lies in front of him. The only thing to mark the transition are where the terra cotta tiles change into light wooden floorboards, as well as a kitchen island with a couple of bar stools, adorned with a vase with some dried yellow flowers in it.

The main living space is both simple and quaint, the small tv placed on a little coffee table against the right-side wall practically antique. It doesn’t surprise John that this place has terrible Wi-Fi; Flint doesn’t really seem one for technology. There’s a little old library cart serving as a bookcase in the corner. Similarly to the kitchen and its floor tiles, the corner of the space that is meant to be the living room is unified by a rug. On the left of the cabin, a couple of feet away from the fridge, stands a desk with a battered old laptop on it, looking out through one of the cabin’s large shuttered French windows. It is surrounded by a few boxes and stacks of paperwork.

There is a shuttered sliding door in the left corner against the back wall. Further to the right, the wall concertinas back, and nestled in the nook created in the staircase pattern stands a large four-poster bed, set against a huge window. John can just see beyond the reflection of the room in the glass and spots a back porch that, if he’s not mistaken, is built out over the water. He can just about see the waves beyond it as they roll in, inky in the twilight.

Everything inside is in colours of pale wood, white, and pale blues and yellows. There is clutter spread around the space; books, papers, letters, some clothes dumped on the chair stood by the desk. He’d almost think the wooden furniture to be handmade if it wasn’t of such quality. A couple of the windows are open, and the sea breeze drifting in through them stirs the sheer curtains, carrying in the scent of the ocean and the lavender that seems to be planted under every window. It feels overwhelmingly like home.

“You can sit down, you know,” Flint points out gruffly. “Just take off your shoes first.” He moves on to make himself busy in the kitchen, washing their dishes while John carefully leans against the doorpost and toes off his shoes to leave on the shoe rack.

“This is…” he tries, but words fail him. It’s nicer than the flat he shares with Randall, that’s for sure. “The wood is nice.” He winces. Flint truly brings out the best and worst in him when it comes to his mastery of the English language sometimes. It’s as if, now that he’s crossed the actual physical threshold and entered Flint’s territory, the balance between them has shifted again, sending him off-kilter and killing his eloquence.

“It’s maple,” Flint grunts, not looking up from their dishes. “Hardy. Resistant to water damage, too. Thought that might be a good choice for a house on the English coast.”

“Yeah,” John replies awkwardly as he makes his way over to the couch. It’s a little awkward to walk barefoot with his leg sometimes since it was modelled to fit shoes, especially since his brain is still in sand-walking mode. “Wait, you thought – did you build this place?”

He looks up from his spot on the couch to see that Flint is looking back at him, a slightly sheepish expression on his face. The man shrugs, then places the last plate in the drying rack and makes his way over to awkwardly sink down on the edge of the coffee table that houses his tv.

“This was my project,” he admits then, a certain weight to his words. “When I was discharged, I didn’t instantly come here, as you know. I stayed up north, in the city, working at the _Walrus_. But an old buddy of mine – Hal, the guy who came to my birthday – was staying down here. He encouraged me to get busy with something else than barking more orders. Something physical, get me out of my head.” A small smile crosses his features. “So I would come down every other weekend, we’d have some beers on the beach and I’d build this cabin.”

“And now you live here,” John concludes. Flint nods.

“And now I live here.”

John looks around. Suddenly, the thought that the furniture might be handmade doesn’t seem as implausible anymore, though he’s reeling slightly at the thought of them being produced by Flint’s hands. “All of it?”

“Well, I scrounged up some stuff,” Flint shrugs. “The bookcase, for example.” He nods at the little library cart. “I didn’t build the tv either. The desk chair, yes, but that was an IKEA assembly pack, so I don’t know if that counts.”

A low huff of laughter escapes John, and he shakes his head. “Did you decorate it, too?”

“Oh, god no, I had help with that,” Flint laughs. “Another old friend from a past life.”

A silence falls between them, and John suddenly feels bone-deep exhaustion hitting him. The residual heat of the sun still lingers under his skin, making him loose-limbed and drowsy. When he looks up, there is a softness in Flint’s eyes as the man studies him.

“You’re not mad at me anymore, then?” John mutters. Flint lets out a sigh.

“Frustrated,” he admits. “But for now, no. I suppose I’m not mad.” He gets up then and walks over to the battered old dresser standing near his bed. He rummages around in one of the drawers before pulling out a worn, slightly oversized T-shirt. “Will this do to sleep in? I don’t know if you want to bathe, get some clean underwear –”

“I’ll make it until tomorrow,” John groans as he hoists himself up from the couch. Every step he takes shoots needles up his left thigh; the sand managed to do a number on him after all, even though he wasn’t out there that long. He grimaces as he gingerly takes the shirt from Flint. It has a faded, unrecognisable logo on it and the fabric is a little threadbare, but it feels all the softer for it. “You got a spare blanket?”

Flint blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“You know,” John says. “For the couch?”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch, Silver.”

John’s heart skips a beat at that, but he suppresses the feeling and cocks an eyebrow instead. “You’re letting me into your bed? Are you sure we’re at that point yet?”

Flint lets out a noise of frustration and rolls his eyes. He moves to the bed and starts rummaging underneath it before pulling out a drawer containing linen, fleece blankets and the like. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, because I will be,” tells John then.

“You’re joking, right? It’s your house – _your_ bed.”

“And you’re my guest,” Flint insists.

“You like to sprawl, you told me yourself. You’re gonna fall off this fucking thing.”

“Firstly, I built that ‘fucking thing’ by hand and you’d do well not to insult it,” Flint retorts, but there is a glint in his eye as he says it. “And second, _you’re missing a leg._ ”

 _Ugh._ “Semantics,” John tries, but Flint literally drags him over to the bed and harshly pushes him down onto it. John only vaguely notes the softness of the mattress, far too occupied with Flint’s rough hands on his shoulders. His breath grows a little laboured. This is the second time Flint has touched him, and god, he wants it to linger, wants it to grow softer, or rougher, he’s not sure, both perhaps.

But Flint, noticing the change in John, quickly lets go. They’re not there yet, not right now, not when there are still tensions and uncertainties between them that need to be ironed out. John lets out the breath he’d been holding and has to just accept that all he can do right now is watch Flint walk over to the couch, stripping off his shirt to put on another older one like the one he gave John. The muscles in his back and shoulders shift, and John watches, mesmerised by the way different freckles dip in and out of the cast shadows.

God, he wants to study them up close. He wants to touch every single one, draw constellations between them, and the longing hits him like a punch in the gut. Before he can say or do anything however to betray his feelings, he tears away his gaze to focus on taking off his prosthetic instead. The material chafes a bit more than usual, and he notices the sand that somehow got in there. He wishes briefly that he had his skin care products, but instead he’ll just have to make do and take care of it tomorrow, when Anne drops off his bag.

He slips between the sheets, letting the smell envelop him. He’s never gotten the chance to smell Flint before, and how the man’s scent is everywhere. He buries his face in the pillows, and after Flint turns off the lights, he quickly drifts off to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has absolutely become my happy place and comfort blanket, not just because of the happy content but also because of all of you and your love. Life is a mess and everything sucks, but I am just over the moon I can provide a little corner of happiness for us all. No guarantees on how long this fic may go on for, but I hope to stretch it out a little at least.
> 
> Now, heads up for this chapter: it starts with some more PTSD (which isn't very well-researched and I apologise greatly to those who actually suffer from it), but trust me, the rest of this extra-long chapter will make up for it. Fluff inbound, hope you all enjoy <3

John is woken up by a hoarse shout.

He shoots upright, disoriented in the dark. There are no buses outside, no shouting drunks. His bed is bigger than he’s used to, and the space smells of salt, wood smoke, and lavender.

 _Flint_.

Another hoarse cry comes from the direction of where he vaguely remembers to be a couch, and John quickly rolls out of bed with a grunt. He’s not sure where his prosthetic is, or the nearest light switch, or any of the furniture to hold onto, so he’s forced to drag himself along the floor on hands and one knee until he meets the nearest big shape in the dark.

“Flint,” he tries as he reaches up to touch the man’s arm. His muscles are corded and twitching, and John watches in growing horror as his hands grasp around _something_ in the empty air. “ _James_.”

Flint’s eyes open at that, but they are blind and unblinking as they dart around, trying to take in some scenario only existing in his head.

 _Shit. Shit, shit, fuck_ , John thinks. It’s worse than last time, and he’s not sure how to proceed. Shake the man? That sounds like a terrible idea. Instead, he tries his name one more time at a louder volume. The only thing that happens is that Flint tilts his head more towards John, but he’s still unresponsive.

He wracks his brain, trying to remember something, anything. The man was Navy, right? Maybe he’ll respond better to his last name. But that would mean that John has to know his last name, which he doesn’t.

He lets out a litany of curse words. _Okay_ , he thinks to himself as Flint twitches in front of him. _Okay, think. Where can I find this man’s last name?_ He would try and shake Flint awake, but something tells him that touching an ex-soldier in the throes of a PTSD-fuelled nightmare is a recipe for disaster. So instead, he crawls over to where he roughly remembers to be a desk, reaching up to feel around for a stack of papers. He can just about make out the letters on an envelope he’s managed to snag as he holds it up to the moonlight, squinting hard and trying to ignore the distressed sounds behind him.

_James McGraw._

Alright. John takes a deep breath before dragging himself across the floor again, back towards the couch. He can do this.

“James,” he tries one more time before clearing his throat. John has never in his life been a figure of authority, but he’ll have to just find it in him somehow. He deepens his voice and harshens his tone when he speaks again. “ _McGraw._ ”

At that, James twitches before fully opening his eyes and looking right at John – though perhaps through him still seems more apt. “Sir,” he manages hoarsely, and John’s heart jumps. _Thank fuck_ , an actual response. “Sir, we need to get out –”

“Report, McGraw,” John interrupts him. He might not be used to using an authoritative tone or giving orders, but he’s determined, and it seems good enough for Flint. The man’s eyes stop flitting to all corners of the room and land on John instead. For a brief moment, John thinks the man recognises him, but then he realises that his expression is set, harsh. Even in what little light there is, John can actually see Flint’s pulse racing, can see the skin pulled taut across his throat by tensely corded tendons flutter.

“Small cabin,” the man says then, actually obeying his order to John’s surprise. “Studio layout. Two main exists, one front, one back. Lots of windows. We need to find cover –”

“What do you see out those windows?”

“Sir?”

“Report, sailor. What do you see?”

“It’s lieutenant – sir, your leg…” Flint’s eyes widen in horror, but John quickly shifts so his stump is not in Flint’s direct line of sight.

“Already healed. It’s an old wound. Report, lieutenant.”

“I see… We seem to be elevated, almost like a watchtower.”

“And?”

“…We’re at the beach.”

“What can you smell, McGraw?”

“Smell?” Flint sounds incredulous, but the panic is slowly seeping away from his voice, replaced by confusion. The edge that kept his body taut like a bowstring is fading.

“Yes, smell,” John tells him, and he’s trying so hard not to reach out, try and snap Flint out of it already, say _please, Flint, please, it’s me, I’m not your commanding fucking officer, please just_ see me _…_ But instead he stays in his role, trying desperately to be patient and help Flint ride this out. “I taught you to use all your senses, didn’t I? Report, lieutenant.”

Flint closes his eyes then, and he breathes in deeply. For a moment he tenses again. “There’s remnants of a fire –”

“Apart from that.”

“…There’s the sea.” He frowns then. “And lavender.”

His eyes open again, but though his shoulders are starting to drop, his gaze still seems distant. “Miranda,” he says then, his voice hoarse. When his eyes meet John’s again, they widen. “Thomas?”

John feels the air knocked from him. “Flint, it’s me,” he tries, _finally_ reaching out ever so carefully. “Silver. John.”

There is a horrible, torturous moment where he thinks Flint won’t recognise him at all, but then the remaining tension bleeds from him and he slumps over.

“John,” he says. “ _John._ ” He curls in on himself. He sounds exhausted, not to mention horrified, and John knows that this moment, his following actions on how to face this, will _matter_.

So he finally crosses the gap and curls his fingers around Flint’s wrist. The man jerks, but there is no real force behind it, and so John keeps a hold of him. He can feel the man’s pulse flutter under his fingers, can feel the tendons shift as Flint clenches and unclenches his fists.

“It’s alright,” he tells Flint as his thumb gently brushes soothing patterns into the man’s wrist. “You’re awake. You’re home. You’re safe.”

They sit like that for a moment, still in the night, only interrupted by the sound of crickets and the waves, with a quiet undercurrent of their mixed breathing.

“I need some air,” Flint says then. He sits up with a grunt and wipes his hands down his face, still avoiding looking at John. Not that John minds; he’s pretty sure he was just called not one but two of Flint’s past lovers, of which one was clearly a woman, so at the moment it’s all a bit awkward between them. But at least there are no night terrors hanging in the air anymore, ready to drag Flint down into the dark again.

“You wanna put your leg on?” Flint asks him gruffly then, and John realises the man wants him to come outside with him. He shakes his head.

“I’d rather not, to be honest,” he replies. “Unless you mind…”

He doesn’t need to say more. Flint wordlessly helps John up, hoisting the man’s arm across his shoulders to support his weight as they make their way to the backdoor. John feels the broad muscles of Flint’s shoulders shift under his hand, feels the heat of his body radiate and seep into John’s side. Up close like this, Flint smells like his sheets, but more human, more real. That constant undercurrent of salt and lavender is there, but there is a stronger scent to the actual man that reminds John more of wood sap, mixed with that natural human musk. He tries his very best not to greedily inhale it all.

The back porch does indeed hang over the ocean. There is a woodworking bench as well as a couple of chairs to sit in when enjoying the view, all of it safely surrounded by a crude yet lovingly crafted wooden fence. There is one gap in it to allow for a ladder that leads down into the water. On the far right, tucked away in the corner of the porch, stands a washtub. John is quietly amazed; this man really seems to do everything by hand, even his laundry. There’s even a washboard and everything. John wonders if Flint ever tried to play it like an instrument.

They sink down into the chairs, and Flint inhales the sea air. He still seems a little shaky, and John leaves him to his thoughts for a bit, allowing the man to find some peace in his own headspace if needed. He’s starting to get good at dragging Flint out of his horrors, but this aftermath he’s not quite sure yet how to handle. Distract him? Leave him be? For now, he trusts that Flint will flag whatever he needs from him. Or so he hopes, at least.

After a moment of silence, Flint lets out a noise. John frowns. It’s a curious noise; like a hum. When he looks over, Flint’s eyes are closed. He leaves the man to his own thoughts a little longer, and there it is again. It’s definitely a hum. In fact, he’d almost go so far as to say Flint is _humming a_[ _melody_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBYThAP_C5A).

It’s a surreal moment. All colour has been bleached by the moon, reducing the world to shades of blueish grey. The sea, eternally moving in front of John, has turned black with specks of silver dancing on the tips of the waves. Flint’s coppery hair has lost almost all colour, and the freckles on his skin seem to have faded. The night has turned everything into another world entirely, and Flint’s low, melodic timbre heightens the alienating sense of it all.

It seems the man has a surprising range; John knows a little of music terms, and it turns out, Flint is a tenor. The melody he’s humming seems hesitant and shaky at first, but then it takes shape, and he starts mouthing the words until they start to properly form.

“… _For it’s cheer up, me lads_ ,” he mutters, the rough melody growing clearer with each word as his voice increases in confidence, like waters calming as the wind dies down to become crystal. “ _Let your hearts never fail. For the bonny ship the Diamond goes a-fishing for the whale._ ”

He cycles through a verse or two, and John sits back and listens as the other man’s voice carries over the waves. He feels himself calm right along with Flint. It’s only now that he realises he was shaking. As well as he handled Flint’s episode, it was still incredibly intense. But both men are starting to find their calm as they sit on the back deck, feeling the nightly summer breeze gently cool them down.

Eventually, Flint falls silent again, and the quiet feels peaceful. The men sit in comfortable silence, Flint’s eyes closed while John’s are taking in every little sight. He finds himself studying how the moonlight crystallises Flint’s eyelashes when the man speaks again.

“You sing?”

John quickly looks away before he can get caught, feeling his face burn a little. He lets out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I sing along to songs, I guess. When they play on the radio, in the _Walrus_ kitchen.”

“Know any good ones?”

“Oh, so it’s my turn to sing, is it?”

“Why not?”

John lets out a nervous laugh at that. “I mean, I honestly can’t think of anything…” But Flint’s gaze on him, despite its patience, feels insistent. After a few seconds, John hesitantly musters up a few words.

“ _Don’t stop, make it pop, DJ blow my speakers up…_ ” His voice fades as Flint’s eyebrow rises incredulously. “Listen, I can’t think under pressure, okay?”

Flint snorts at that. “You don’t say.”

The silence stretches between them for a moment, but then, John smiles.

“[ _Almost Heaven_](https://youtu.be/VZAzgpSXgqY?t=6) _…_ ” he starts, and beside him, Flint shift. “ _West Virginia…_ ”

Flint doesn’t look at him, but John can tell the man’s ears are pricked. He knows his voice isn’t spectacular, definitely not as strong as Flint’s at least, but he feels his confidence grow a little. “ _Blue Ridge Mountain, Shanandoa River._ ” Flint is starting to smile now, the smallest hint of a smile, but it bolsters John’s confidence a little further. He clears his throat. “ _Life is old there, older than the trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze…_ ”

“ _Country roads_ ,” Flint joins in softly then, and it startles John. But he continues, and Flint manages to weave a second melody around his own. “ _Take me home, to the place I belong; West Virginia, mountain mama, take me home, country roads._ ”

As their combined voices carry over the water, the moment goes from feeling a little silly to something soft, quiet and surprisingly intimate. John doesn’t go into a second verse. He can’t find it in him. Instead, he looks up, meeting the glint of Flint’s eyes in the moonlight.

“You good?” he asks. His voice is rough, quiet in the night as it mingles with the whisper of the waves below. Flint nods. They hold each other’s gaze a little longer, John’s heart in his throat, before the older man finally gets up a little slowly and stiffly. He helps John up as well and supports him as they make their way back inside. John is carefully lowered down on the side of the bed, and he watches as Flint makes his way back over to the couch. He sighs.

“Just… Get over here, will you?”

Flint looks up almost a little too quickly, smoothening his features into something that doesn’t betray eagerness or hope, though John still catches a glimpse of it. He quickly hides his own smile. Flint moves slowly, hesitantly, as if worried he’ll spook John. He’ll have to try harder than that if that’s what he fears, John thinks. He’s experienced worse than sharing a bed. This, he can handle. The declarations of love on the other hand may just have to wait for now.

He lifts the blanket, remembering that this is in fact not his bed and feeling a little awkward about it. The corner of Flint’s mouth twitches however, and he slips under the covers. John looks at him in the dark. There’s a man in his bed, he faintly realises. Sure, it’s not _his_ bed, but that’s beside the point. There is a man in his bed, a man whose voice he has started to miss in every silence, whose touch he can’t get enough of, as chaste as it has been so far. A man whose demons he’s glimpsed. A beautiful man.

“You going to stare or sleep?” Flint asks gruffly, but there is a softness, a sense of amusement to his tone. John lets out a nervous chuckle.

“I’ll sleep,” he says. “I just… want a moment.”

Flint doesn’t judge him for it. Instead, he lies there silently, on his stomach, arms bunched up under his pillow and blankets only halfway up his torso, half-open eyes patiently resting on John’s face.

John can just make out some of the freckles on his arms between where Flint’s sleeves end and the pillow covers the rest. They have turned a warm grey against the stark white of his skin in the bleaching moonlight, and suddenly, John wants so badly for the man to wear nothing at all. He wants to see the full expanse of Flint’s skin, see his back almost glow in the moonlight, watch his shoulder muscles shift. His breath catches in his throat as he can almost picture it.

Okay, that’s enough staring for now. He lifts his foot and slips between the sheets as well. Beside him, he hears Flint take that deep inhale reserved for the edge of sleep, and he smiles. Hopefully, with John beside him, the man’s demons won’t return tonight.

* * *

He briefly wakes up again while it’s still dark outside, disoriented only for a moment before he realises what woke him. Beside him, Flint has shifted over to take up more space, an arm thrown over John’s torso and a leg crossing his calf. Flint has buried his face into the crook of John’s neck, and it takes John a moment before realising the man is unconsciously drinking in his scent.

John shivers. He’s overheating a little, sweat gluing Flint’s arm to his chest where his shirt rode up, but he wouldn’t change their position for all the money in the world. As terrifying as the intimacy is, he also feels indescribably happy. So he lets his eyes slip closed, taking in Flint’s scent in turn, and drifts off to sleep again.

* * *

“Good morning, James.”

Beside John, Flint shoots upright, pulling up the blanket to his chest as if to hide any non-existent nudity. John snorts. Oh, he wishes.

He frowns then. In his half-asleep state, it takes him a moment to firstly remember that he’s at Flint’s place, and then to remember that Flint – as far as he’s aware – lives alone.

He cracks open one groggy eye to see a woman standing by front door, next to the kitchen island. Her brown hair is tied up into an elegant knot, revealing her slender neck adorned with what looks like an actual jewelled necklace. She’s wearing a yellow sundress and has a mild smile curling around her lips. She looks prim and proper, ageless, but with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“Should I come back later? I only thought I’d let myself in since there is a very angry-looking redhead on your doorstep. I thought, ‘Perhaps I should check inside in case James has changed gender and de-aged himself a little’. Not to mention to make sure she wouldn’t break down the door.”

“Later would be… preferable,” Flint replies warily, ignoring the jokes. John sits up too, rubbing his face to wake himself up a bit. Sunlight is pouring in through the windows, bathing the cabin in a soft, summer morning glow. He can see the dust motes sparkle in the sunbeams.

“Can you tell Anne to just leave the bag outside?” he asks the woman tentatively, feeling like he’s overstepping a little. He doesn’t even know who she is, or why she has a key to Flint’s place. The woman chuckles.

“I would love to, but I believe she and her friend refuse to leave until they’ve seen that you are both alive,” she tells them. She gives John one final glance, but Flint gives her a hard stare.

“ _Later_ ,” he presses. She gives him a smile, nods politely at John, then finally exists. John can just hear the muffled sound of Anne’s and Jack’s voices outside, and the clear, patient voice of the woman. Beside him, Flint lets out a soft groan as he throws the blanket back over his head.

“A friend?” John asks, trying to only sound mildly curious. The woman seemed quite the enigma.

“Of a sort,” Flint replies, his voice muffled. “It’s… complicated.” He remains like that for a minute, but then he emerges again and sits up. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed so that his back is turned to John, who recognises that’s the end of the conversation for now. He shifts to his own end of the bed, where he can now clearly see his prosthetic on the floor, and he quickly bends down to attach it. When he is done, he twists a little to look at Flint’s still hunched shoulders.

“Tea?” he asks. Flint seems to soften a little at that, and when he glances over his shoulder and John sees the half-smile tugging at his lips, it stirs something fierce and warm within him.

“Please,” Flint replies.

They move around the space at their own pace, making their friends wait outside. John can see it amuses Flint, and it makes him enjoy it all the more. Sure, he’s not necessarily the type to _revel_ in being an asshole, but those dramatic bastards can wait a bit. Surely their morning mystery guest has informed them that John and Flint are in fact still very much alive. It’s a lovely day; they can sit in the sun or soak their feet in the water. There’s no rush.

It’s strange to have their usual morning ritual in person for a change. Even stranger is that John makes his way around the kitchen like he owns the place, searching the cabinets for mugs, English Breakfast bags, milk and sugar, while Flint fries a couple of eggs beside him. He watches Flint read his paper at the island counter while he himself leans against the counter, cradling his cup of tea as he slowly wakes up.

It strikes him just how much the little pixeled screen has done Flint a disservice; there is nothing better than seeing the man like this, his hair still tousled with sleep and the stubble on his jaw, sunlight pouring in to light up every hair in a fiery red-gold. John finds himself staring at minute details of the man. He looks at how his pale eyelashes brush against freckle-dusted cheekbones each time he slowly blinks. He stares at those rough hands bringing the mug to his lips, and at green-blue eyes scanning the pages of the newspaper. He stares at the shift of tendons under Flint’s arms. He feels like he’s losing his mind, but in the most deceptively peaceful way. The calm of it almost terrifies him.

_Almost._

When they’ve both finished their plates, Flint toasts a couple of crumpets, which he butters and plates. He also instructs John to make some coffee. For a moment, John is confused, but when they head out through the front door, he remembers they in fact have guests.

Anne and Vane are sitting at a round little wooden breakfast table on the front porch, looking out over the beach. Anne looks pissed, but Vane doesn’t seem to really care, especially when Flint hands them breakfast.

“Good to see you two haven’t torn each other to shreds, then,” Anne says while Vane wolfs down his crumpet and coffee. John shrugs. Beside him, Flint busies himself with watering the lavender under his windows. _Bastard._

“Yeah, it wasn’t all so bad,” he replies, already thinking of a small way to pay Flint back for making him deal with the conversation by himself. He smirks. “I learned Flint is quite the tenor.”

Anne’s eyebrows rise, but Vane still doesn’t seem to care. “You didn’t know?” he says between bites, and John swears inwardly. He can practically _feel_ Flint gloating beside him.

“No, he failed to mention it.”

“Flint and I are in a choir together. Jack joins too when he’s visiting. He’s not great, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm.”

“Shit, you mean _that_ choir?” Anne snorts. “God, I forgot Jack mentioned that. I remember going to karaoke with him way back when. Fucking disaster.”

“A choir?” John asks, and now Flint seems even busier. _Oh, how the turntables._ “What kind of choir?”

“Shanties,” Vane shrugs. “Some a capella shit, sometimes Gates brings his accordion or hurdy gurdy.”

“Wait, you know someone with a genuine hurdy gurdy?” John laughs. “What did I walk in on, Neverland? Is this Pirate Cove? Don’t tell me you guys are called the Lost Boys.”

“It’s just how the South Coast rolls, I guess,” Vane replies. “You got any cinnamon for this?” He points to the remaining crumpet, and Flint looks beyond grateful for an excuse to make himself scarce. John snorts and shakes his head.

“So how come you call him Flint?” he asks, leaning back against the wall of the cabin. “I mean, I call him that because of his social media handle, but you’ve known the guy in person for far longer. Does everyone call him that?”

“Some Navy people do,” Vane replies, leaning back casually. He’s wearing another button-down tee, which is once again hanging open. He idly scratches his toned stomach, and across from him, Anne rolls her eyes. “He told the story of his pirate ancestor once in the mess hall and it stuck. It suits him, you know?”

John looks to the window through which he can see Flint rummage around in his kitchen, muffled swears audible as he reaches for a shelf that is just too high for him. He smiles.

“It does.”

The two visitors stick around for another half hour before Vane mutters something about a supply run. Anne awkwardly drops John’s bag into his arms.

“Glad you two haven’t killed each other,” she says curtly. John snorts.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, Max has been asking about it non-stop, and I’ve got a hangover that could down an elephant, so it’s good to know I can shut her up.”

John laughs. He has to say, she doesn’t particularly look like she’s nursing a hangover, but then again, Anne never looks particularly chipper, so he probably just can’t tell the difference. “Well, you can tell her…” He sighs, looking back at the cabin. Flint is doing the dishes inside. “Tell her Flint doesn’t hate me. Tell her I’ll let her know when I’m coming back. Might take a day or two more, I don’t know. Something tells me we still have things to talk about.”

Anne raises an eyebrow, and John frowns right back. “What?”

“I mean, I don’t know the man well, but I kinda like to think I know you at least a bit,” she says. “I mean, Max keeps going on about you, so. Anyway. I don’t think a few days is gonna cut it with the two of you.”

John feels his face heat at the thought that Max likes him enough to talk about him. It’s hard to imagine sometimes how people he might consider friends actually feel about him, how – or if – they talk about him when he’s not there. The mental image of Max gossiping to an exasperated Anne is surprisingly heart-warming. “How long do you reckon, then?” he asks.

But Anne just shakes her head. “You know what, this ain’t none of my business. Not to mention, I don’t care.”

At that, John beams his most winning smile. “Oh, dear Anne, I know _that’s_ a lie.”

“You two fuck yet?”

That brings him to a screeching halt, his smile faltering. “I beg your pardon?”

“Max wants to know.”

“Yeah, I bet she fucking does. Tell her I’m not telling.”

Anne snorts. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Vane’s waiting for you.”

“Yeah, fuck you too, Silver.” But she says it with a smile, and he tugs playfully on the rim of her old hat with his free hand before watching her descend swiftly down the steps onto the sand, light-footed like a cat. John sighs and shakes his head before finally heading back inside with his bag.

“You manage to get rid of our guests?” Flint asks from the sink. John’s pretty sure he’s been scrubbing the same mug for the past five minutes.

“I’m sure with your sociability and sunny disposition, it could’ve gone a lot faster,” John quips, and Flint barks out a laugh. John beelines for the couch, where he sinks down and pulls off his prosthetic with a groan. He then proceeds to rummage in his bag to emerge with a pot of muscle cream and another pot filled with some soothing ointment for his skin.

“Besides,” he calls back over his shoulder, now watching Flint slowly and methodically wipe every dish with a rag before placing them in the drying rack while keeping his eyes trained on John, “I believe we may have another guest at some undetermined time in the near future.”

Flint curses at that. “I suppose I owe you an explanation, don’t I?” he says as he watches John take care of his stump. He sighs, then reluctantly puts down the dish rag. He makes his way over to sit on the edge of the coffee table again, just like yesterday. John wonders if it’s his favourite spot to sit, or if it’s just convenient. The man fidgets with his rings a bit before he speaks.

“You know how I mentioned I had help decorating the place?” Flint finally says. “She’s the mastermind behind it. The lavender is hers, too. She grows it in her garden, has been for the past couple of years.”

John nods. So far, it makes sense. What he doesn’t quite get is what makes her special enough to have her own key to the place. He feels a tendril of doubt and insecurity make its way up his neck, and he rubs at it to will it away.

“Her name is Miranda Hamilton.”

 _Miranda._ There it is, the punch to the gut he was waiting for. “Old friend?” John asks. He was this close to asking _old fling_ instead, but that would’ve been ridiculous. No man gives an old fling the key to his place. Across from him, James nods, and John has to will himself to keep his hands moving to treat his leg like none of this is affecting him. Because it isn’t. Why should it? Why would it? He won’t let it. Definitely not if this Miranda thing ends up being an issue.

“You mentioned her name last night,” he says, avoiding Flint’s gaze. They haven’t mentioned Flint’s episode yet, but now that he has, he can feel the atmosphere shift between them. He regrets it instantly. “Hers, and another.”

Flint clears his throat at that. “Thomas?” he guesses. John nods. “Yeah. They were married.”

At that, John looks up.

“We were all close friends. Very close. In fact, they meant the world to me. They made me who I am today.” Flint is avoiding John’s gaze, giving him John opportunity to study the other man. He’s fidgeting with his rings, everything about his body language clearly indicating nerves, but not really any tension. These aren’t bad memories, and he doesn’t seem to expect John to have a bad response to this. Does it mean there is nothing for John to be upset about? Or that John is convincing enough in his act that none of this affects him, that he’s without fear, jealousy, doubt? He can’t tell.

“Anyway,” Flint says, “James died. So.”

“And you and… Miranda… are still finding solace in one another.”

At that, Flint lets out a relieved little exhale, finally looking up again. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“And there is nothing else?”

Flint huffs at that. “Well,” he says, “there’s years of history, really.” He swallows. “We love each other deeply in a way, all three of us. But the whole story is perhaps too much to cover. Certainly this early on in…” He indicates the space between them, and looks at John with a look that begs _can you be patient?_ John groans, finally dropping his skincare products.

“Alright,” he replies. “Alright. But don’t be surprised if I end up making myself scarce during _your_ visiting hour in return.” He pulls out a foldable cane from his bag. It’s not ideal, but it helps him get around short distances. While his skin absorbs the creams, he’d rather not put his prosthetic back on, so it’s a convenient temporary tool for moments like this. He also pulls out a toothbrush and some hair products, with which he heads for the bathroom. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to feel marginally human again.”

Miranda drops by just after lunch, and John uses the time she’s there to take to the sea. Flint’s private little beach makes him feel secluded and safe, and he has no qualms with wearing nothing but his trunks out here where no-one can see his exposed stump. He can barely hear kids’ voices carry over the waves from further down, but the sound blends into the rest of the background noise easily enough. Soon, he’s drifting face-up on the waves, letting them gently carry him back and forth. _God_ , he might be a true city slicker, but Flint really has carved out a little corner of paradise for himself here.

He’s unsure of how much time has passed when he looks up and sees Flint stand on the beach, looking out over the waves. He quickly swims over until he sits in the shallows, foam washing up around his waist. He feels like a mermaid.

“You’ll burn, you know,” Flint tells him. John smirks.

“Nah, I put on some Factor 30 before I went in,” he replies. “Hey, this is gonna sound vapid as hell, but could you take a picture of me?”

The corner of Flint’s mouth twitches. “Is this for your followers?”

“I did tell them I was heading for the south coast. The least I can do is indulge them in some of _this_.” He indicates at his own body, waggling his eyebrows furiously. Flint bursts into laughter at that, shaking his head as he turns to his cabin to go grab John’s phone.

John had hoped for just a quick snapshot, and he’d gathered that Flint wasn’t the most patient man who would probably be completely done with John’s need to get the picture and caption _just right_ after a mere thirty seconds. But for some reason, Flint decided to find the fun in it, and the moment soon devolves into a full-blown fashion shoot. Not a serious one, of course; instead, John is instructed to flip his hair in the wind, to drizzle seawater down his torso, to throw handfuls of sand into the waves, to pretend to make out with _this random clam shell_.

Flint laughs his ass off at one point when John attempts to sit cross-legged in the foam like he’s meditating, the shell balanced precariously on his head, before being thrown sideways by a particularly large wave. As revenge, John splashes water in his direction, and Flint has to quickly jump back, John’s phone held high in the air to save it from any damage. He ends up quickly dropping it on the steps to his cabin before rushing back, taking off his shirt and shorts as he goes, before knocking John back into the water.

The men wrestle in the shallows for a few minutes, laughing triumphantly when one gains the upper hand over the other or another wave inadvertently humiliates them by knocking them over or splashing them in the face. John nearly jumps out of the water with a squeal of disgust when he feels something slip past him, but it turns out to just be a piece of seaweed, which Flint, after cackling like a maniac, ends up wearing like a neckerchief.

“You have _one leg_!” Flint cries out eventually when John has him pinned beneath him, straddling the man’s ribcage. “I’m ex-Navy! How the _fuck_ do you have the upper hand here!?”

“Simple,” John laughs before pushing Flint’s face under water for a brief second. The man comes back up spluttering, and for a second John suddenly remembers his episode of the night before. _Oh god_ , he thinks, _please don’t let that trigger anything, I’m an idiot_ –

But Flint looks relatively unperturbed, apart from the clear indignation in his eyes, so John lets out a tiny breath of relief. He leans in until his face is mere inches from Flint’s. He can count every freckle, every glistening eyelash. The man’s eyes are red from the saltwater, and it makes his irises look even greener. He smirks. “My hot bod makes you weak.”

Flint’s breath hitches, and oh god, he can feel it on his face like a breeze, but then Flint bucks his hips and sends him flying, reversing their positions. This time, it’s Flint who smirks as his weight bears down on John. His body feels hot against John’s in contrast to the cool water, the knees on either side of his hips anchoring him so the waves can’t wash him away like he suddenly desperately wants to. And yet, he also simultaneously feels safer than ever, desperate to stay in this moment, in this place, and see where it leads. He suspects he knows exactly what is about to happen, and as always, he can’t help but tempt fate.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, and the look Flint sends him asks, _are you sure?_ He nods and says it again, this time with more certainty. “Kiss me.”

Flint takes John’s face between his hands, cradling him gently as he leans down while John props himself up on his elbows to meet him halfway. There is a moment where there is less than half an inch between them. He feels Flint’s breath on him again, ghosting against his lip, can feel the hairs of his moustache tickle lightly against his skin. His thumb brushes against the piece of seaweed still tied around Flint’s throat, and he feels the corners of his mouth twitch.

“Shut up,” Flint mutters. His lips almost touch John’s. _Almost._

“Not a word from me.”

His heart races in his chest, the sound of his blood rushing – or perhaps it is the waves gently pushing and pulling at them – in his ears, and then it all falls away as he finally feels those lips against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I linked the versions of songs I was imagining Flint and Silver to sing in the text, but here they are again if you missed them: [Flint's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBYThAP_C5A) and [Silver's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZAzgpSXgqY). I imagine Flint would probably go for a lower key, but I really like this calm version. Anyway, next chapter is absolutely gonna be smut, which means it may take a wee while. Hope you all can bear with me haha.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm so sorry for the wait. Life has still been hell, but I'm taking things slow and recovering. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter <3

Flint’s lips are dry and chapped, and they taste of salt. They push and pull just like the waves surrounding them, and John instantly realises he’s just as able to drown in this. Greedily he opens his mouth, and Flint, with mild amusement curling the corners of his mouth, obliges and deepens the kiss. The feeling of it, the _intensity_ of it, shocks John. It resonates through him, sends his heartrate flying, and when he feels the slick brush of Flint’s tongue against his, he groans, almost too overcome with it all. One of his hands comes up to tangle in Flint’s hair, and he’s fairly sure he’s undone the elastic holding up that half-ponytail, for the strands come undone and flow through his fingers. He gives a gentle tug, and as a result, a low grumble rises from Flint’s chest as the man surges forward. John feels himself smirk.

“You know,” he mutters against Flint’s lips when he is finally forced to come up for air, “I’m gonna find every single weakness of yours and exploit it to the fullest.”

Flint lets out a hoarse laugh. His eyes look dark and that almost predatory smile threatens to break through as he leans in and says, “I don’t doubt it.” He nips at John’s lip, who lets out a startled noise. “As long as you know I may have to do the same to you.”

John feels his heart almost stop, but he suppresses the anxiety. Because he trusts Flint. Despite them having only mostly known each other over a distance, he has never trusted anyone more than Flint. The man wears his heart on his sleeve, is an open book written in a language John is becoming an expert in. He’s just trying to live his life, and John can tell there is no ulterior motive, no malice, no ill intent behind any of his actions. Flint is a man who just wants to be happy, to find peace. How can he not trust him?

Instead of replying, he decides to surge forward and meet Flint’s mouth again. He wants more of this, wants to do this for hours.

Though, admittedly, discovering each other’s weaknesses also sounds pretty tempting.

“Flint,” he mutters, and Flint chuckles.

“Still no first-name basis?”

“I like Flint.”

“Alright,” Flint laughs. “Yes, Silver?”

John pulls back a little, his eyes studying the damage he’s done. Flint’s hair is undone and hanging down into hooded eyes in wet strands, and his lips are spit-slick and swollen. His gaze is trained on John’s mouth, and John can tell he’s trying so hard not to lick his lips. John smiles and props himself up a little further, closing the gap between them until he can feel Flint’s facial hair tickling against his skin.

“I think I’d like to see your cock in person now.”

Flint nearly chokes at that, letting out a litany of curses. “ _Christ_ , Silver,” he breathes before diving back down to devour John again. John can _feel_ him stiffening against the jut of his hip, and it short-circuits his brain for a moment.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes. “That’s – that’s new.”

“Men get hard, Silver,” Flint reminds him, but the teasing tone has darkened a little to match his hooded eyes. He reaches down into the water to brush his hand against the front of John’s swimming trunks to tease John’s equally stiffening cock. John’s breath hitches, his hips jolting a little at the stimulation. “Case in point.”

“Really?” John manages. He’s struggling to breathe. Flint is so close, so real, a physical presence pressed against him. He wants to be enveloped in the sensation, bury his face in the man’s neck, feel his comforting weight pin him down. “I had no idea.”

“We’ve done this before,” Flint laughs, but John shakes his head.

“We haven’t,” he insists. “Not like this.” He gently drags his nails across Flint’s scalp, and the man shudders. “Or this.” He cranes his neck to lick at the skin where Flint’s neck meets his shoulder, before ever so lightly digging in his teeth. The rush of being able to getting his mouth on Flint’s skin is indescribable.

“You shit,” Flint breathes, retaliating by dragging the front of John’s trunks down and wrapping his fingers around John’s bare cock. John hisses. There is a moment where they both still and look at each other, before Flint bursts into laughter.

“What?” John pouts, feeling just a twinge of insecurity, but Flint shakes his head.

“I’m not fucking you in the sea.”

“What’s wrong with the sea?”

“Firstly, sand gets everywhere – and I mean _everywhere_ –”

“Surely –”

“ _Everywhere_ ,” Flint assures him. “And secondly, seawater makes for _lousy_ lube.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says. “Your place, then?”

“Well, I’m certainly not driving three hours so I can fuck you with Randall in the next room.”

“Not even if I throw the prospect of a bastard cat in the mix?”

Flint laughs, but then his smile turns dangerous, and John feels his heart skip a beat. “You’re stalling,” the man tells him in a low voice. John swallows.

“Not at all.”

“Do you want to see my cock in person or not?”

“Yes,” John argues, “I just…”

“My cock doesn’t bite, John,” Flint assures him. “And neither do I. Do you think I’d do anything you’re not comfortable with?”

John lets out a shaky breath at that. He’s not sure what he was thinking. Perhaps it’s the word _fuck_. Something about the way Flint says it is electrifying, but at the same time, he’s not exactly an expert on what the word entails for two men. He can guess, though, and he must admit, he’s a little intimidated and feeling rather overwhelmed.

But then, this is Flint, who’s been so patient with him, who _knows_ him.

“No,” he says then, “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Flint smiles at that. “Come on, then. You good with climbing ladders?” John nods, and at that, Flint swims towards his cabin. After tucking his dick back into his trunks, John follows suit. Flint is up the ladder that leads to the back porch first, and with a bit of strain, John manages to climb up as well, feeling grateful for his sessions in the gym where he’s increased his upper body strength. When he reaches the top, Flint helps pull him up until he’s standing.

He’s about to head inside when he realises Flint has headed instead to the other side of the back deck instead, disorienting him a little. Flint disappears into the nook on the far left, only to emerge with a garden hose in his hand. John instantly freezes.

“Flint…” he warns.

“I don’t have an outdoor shower by the backdoor like I do for the front one, and like hell are you tracking sand into my cabin,” Flint tells him resolutely. He visibly grits his teeth before holding the hose over his head and squeezing the trigger. The water shooting out causes him to briefly yelp, and John winces in sympathy. That cold has got to murder any hard-on.

“You’re not hosing me down.”

“Oh, I sure am.”

“I rinsed off all sand in the sea!” John protests. He tries to back away as Flint approaches, the hose held out threateningly like a gun. John learns however that when you only have a drop into the ocean behind you and one leg to manoeuvre around on, backing away is quite hard. “What are you worried about, staining the sheets with seawater? They’re gonna need washing anyway!”

Flint squints at him sceptically, and John knows that no matter how well he can talk his way out of anything, he’s not getting out of this one. “Flint, you fucker, don’t you _dare_ –”

Flint pulls the trigger.

It’s fucking _COLD_. John lets out a scream – a very manly one, if anyone asks – and he _feels_ his dick shrivel up. “Oh, you _bastard_!” he cries out as he tries to squirm away from the jet of ice water, but again, it’s not easy on one leg. God, it fucking _hurts_. “Stop, you fucking lunatic – god, I’m clean, I swear!”

There is a moment where time seems to stand still as he loses his grip on the wooden guardrail around the porch. Ever so briefly, he is suspended in mid-air.

And then, time catches up with him and he falls off the elevated porch, limbs flailing, to land flat on the surface of the waves below.

“Fuck – Silver!” he hears Flint shout as he resurfaces, spluttering violently. “You alright?”

“Oh, I’m gonna fucking rub this seawater _all up in your sheets_ ,” John grits as he swims back to the ladder. “I’m fine,” he then replies at a normal tone. “Believe it or not, I _am_ moderately water-proof.”

When he makes it to the top again, Flint gives him a once-over. He looks drenched and disgruntled, he knows; not unlike a drowned cat. There is a moment when he can see emotions warring on Flint’s face before worry dissipates and the corner of his mouth starts to twitch.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” John says again, but the chuckle has already started to build up in Flint’s chest, and once it gets going, there’s no stopping it. “You absolute fucking maniac – it’s not funny!” But Flint only laughs harder at that. John glares at him.

“Just so you know,” he says as he awkwardly hops towards the backdoor, “I have lost any desire to get laid.”

Flint shakes his head and steps into John’s path, snaking his arms around the other’s waist. “I’m sorry,” he says softly before leaning in for a kiss. John stubbornly presses his lips shut, but it only purses them, giving Flint the opportunity to pepper his mouth. It’s just a little ridiculous, but also absolutely endearing. John can’t help but melt a little in the man’s arms.

It turns out trusting Flint was a mistake. Just as he relaxes into the kiss, eyes slipping closed, a jet of water shoots down upon him from above. He can fucking _feel_ Flint’s laughter rumbling in his chest, the bastard.

After some more squirming and yelling, he finally gives in. Flint steps back with a very contented smirk, which John only glares at. He’s given a towel from a little basket by the door, which he’s got half a mind to just throw back in Flint’s face so that he can stomp into the cabin soaking wet, dripping water everywhere as a petty form of revenge, but with his one leg, he fears he won’t get very far. He might have briefly had the advantage in the water, but on land, Flint definitely has the upper hand.

“Stay here,” the man tells him when they’ve both towelled themselves dry, then briefly heads inside. John sinks down into one of the chairs that stand on the deck looking out over the water, and he’s secretly grateful that he gets to stay out a little longer. The hot summer sun heats his cold and stiffened muscles, and he slowly relaxes under its rays.

“Hey,” he hears behind him a few minutes later, and he lets out a non-committal noise in response. “Are you mad with me?”

John realises his shoulders have stiffened at the sound of Flint approaching, and he frowns before quickly trying to shrug it off. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re allowed to be, you know?” Flint says as he crouches down beside John, leaning his arm on the chair’s armrest.

“It was a stupid little thing,” John tries to laugh off. “Not exactly something to hold a grudge over.”

Beside him, Flint sighs, but for a moment, he doesn’t respond. When he finally speaks, his words are weighed and careful. “This is all very new to you, isn’t it?”

John snorts. “Which bit?” he responds. “I’ve been in relationships before, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Do you mind me asking how long those lasted?”

It turns out, John does mind. He stands up abruptly, nearly falling over before grabbing onto the safety railing. “I’m going for another swim.”

“ _John._ ”

He stops in his tracks at that. He has to close his eyes and breathe deeply, inhaling the scent of lavender and the sea, just to calm his heartbeat, before opening his eyes again to look at Flint.

“This… this isn’t easy for me,” he finally manages, and Flint nods. He shifts forward so that he can lean his arms on the fence while letting his legs dangle over the edge. After a moment’s hesitation, John sinks down to join him. Somehow, it’s always easier to just look out over the waves than to look at each other. He breathes deeply, trying to sync up each inhale and exhale with the rush of the water below him.

“Fine,” he finally admits. “So I’m annoyed. So what? It’s ridiculous. Ignore me. Be happy.”

“I can’t just ignore your feelings, John,” Flint tells him, and somehow that hits John. He swallows heavily. “That’s not how this works. If you’re irritated, I can’t just pretend everything’s alright. I upset you, and it’s my job to figure out exactly where I went wrong so I won’t do it again.”

John doesn’t reply to that. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the waves, on the very distant sails and the seagulls soaring high in the sky.

“You don’t know, do you?” Flint asks then. “You don’t know why you’re angry.”

By now, John is blinking away tears. Flint is right, he realises. About all of it. He’s annoyed, borderline angry, over nothing. _Nothing_. He doesn’t get it, has no idea what’s wrong with him.

“When I came back from the war,” Flint says then, “I didn’t talk to anyone. Well, I talked, but…not really. I had a lot of things to process, and no knowledge of the language – how to put any of it into words. I was just… It was like storm clouds. You ever watch the sky on a stormy night?”

John shakes his head. He doesn’t quite know how this relates to him; he’s not gone to war, not like Flint.

“It’s dark, and it _churns_. That was what it felt like inside of me. Dark, churning chaos. All these horrors, fears, anxieties, memories and nightmares getting muddled up, and I couldn’t speak them.

“Hal Gates had been a friend of mine for a good long time by then. He was an old Navy man himself; nowadays he runs the local veteran centre. Keeps us all sane like the fucking saint he is.” John can hear him smile as Flint says it. “Anyway, he told me to find a project to keep me busy. I started coming out here to build this cabin, stayed at his place while I worked until the roof was built. It got me out of my head a bit, got me to work out some of the anger at everything I felt. Eventually I was open to his suggestion to seek counselling. That’s where I learned that no matter how busy you keep yourself, you’ll never be able to process everything and truly move on until you talk about it. It was there that I learned the right vocabulary to identify exactly how I felt.”

Flint sighs then before finally casting a side-glance at Silver. “I don’t know what you’ve been through in your life, John. I know you came here so we could talk things out, learn how to communicate with each other properly. This isn’t me asking you your life story – you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to – but just… Try and figure out what’s bothering you right now. Try and tell me that, at least. That’s all I’m asking.”

John lets out a long breath through his nose. He frankly doesn’t like focusing on his feelings, has always been a champion at avoiding them. Everything within him is telling him to do just that right now. If he stood still to confront his feelings every time he had them, he wouldn’t have fucking made it through life with all the bullshit he’s had to endure.

But this isn’t some large issue he has to analyse. This should be easy. He can do this. For Flint.

“I suppose…” he tries. “I let down my guard. No – you _broke down_ my guard.”

“And I suppose, in a way, I briefly abused that moment of trust.”

“…Yes.”

Flint gives him a gentle nudge. “For some people that would be a non-issue,” he says, and John bristles.

“What, I’m a fucking idiot for getting bothered by it?”

“No,” Flint elaborates calmly, “I’m just saying that you’re different. Your experiences are different. Now that I’m aware that it is an issue for you, I’ll know to avoid it or be more careful with it in the future.”

John looks at him with a frown, and he’s struck by the open honesty in Flint’s eyes. “Why would you want to go through that trouble?” he asks, and his voice almost breaks. Almost.

“Because I take this seriously,” Flint replies. “And because I care.”

He leans in closer then, slowly, to give John the space to retreat if he wants. But John remains where he is, lets Flint close the gap until their lips meet. When John’s eyes slip closed, he feels something wet brush down his cheeks. Flint gracefully ignores it.

“You know,” John finally says when they break apart again, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a relationship like this.”

Flint lets out a chuckle. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

Neither of them are particularly in the mood for anything more sexual after that. John joins Flint inside, where he helps the man make dinner for the both of them. It’s nice, nicer than bearing his soul on the back deck of his cabin by far. It takes very little speaking, and to his joy, they work with surprising ease and synchronicity. Flint even shows him some basic guidance on how to _actually_ cook, something which John has always lacked in life.

“I hate to ask this,” Flint says as they eat, “but how long are you wanting to stay?” As soon as he spots John’s frozen expression, he quickly backpedals. “It’s just that I’m working again tomorrow. And there really… _really_ isn’t anything to do around here. Unless you want to go swimming again, which I won’t hold against you, but doing that all day every day has got to become tiring. Not to mention mind-numbingly dull.”

John is still trying to recover from the way the part of his brain that handles abandonment issues and rejection lit up like a Christmas tree, so instead of thinking things over rationally, he answers: “I’ll figure something out.”

Flint looks sceptical, and honestly, John doesn’t blame him. If he’s honest, he didn’t come down here with a contingency plan. He managed to get about four days off beside his two already scheduled free days, so really he has time to spare if he needs it. But he hadn’t thought about what he might do with it. After all, Flint has a job – or five. It’s a miracle John even got this past day-and-a-half with the man.

“Go to work,” he assures Flint. “I’ll find a way to keep myself occupied. Hey, what does Vane do to fill his time? Busy man? I mean, he stays nearby, right? I could message Anne, swing by, see how those three are doing. Maybe they’ll be willing to entertain my company.”

Flint snorts. “You know, I would pay good money to see you spend an afternoon with Charles and Jack,” he replies. “But sure, that could work. _Maybe._ ”

“I managed to charm Anne,” John reminds him. “ _Anne_. She doesn’t get charmed by anything or anyone. And yet I survived a three-hour car journey with her.”

“Really, you achieved the bare minimum,” Flint points out, amusement tinging his voice. “But I’ll take your word for it that it’s quite the feat.”

Somehow, that evening they are tentative yet again about getting into the same bed. But to his amazement, John is the first one to roll his eyes and admit defeat, because for fucks sake, this is getting ridiculous. So he whips back the covers and slips between them before tugging back the other side, allowing Flint to join him.

“Can’t believe we’re grown men,” he mutters to himself. Flint chuckles beside him.

“Well, it’s a big deal, isn’t it?” he says. “Platonic bed sharing.”

“ _Radiates_ commitment,” John agrees, ignoring the way the words make his stomach lurch. Beside him, Flint hums before carefully shuffling closer. John feels an arm slip around his waist, and his eyes slip shut at the comfort of it. He’s enveloped, held tight, and he honestly can’t remember the last time he felt like this. For once, he just lets himself indulge in it, and he quickly falls into a contented sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen _listen_ i know i didn't deliver on this chapter, i tried SO HARD and it just wouldn't happen. I was gonna add it, but then the chapter just grew and grew and it became 10k words, so i had to split it, and this was the only way i could do it naturally. Anyway, this fic is currently kicking my ass with all this character development and hints of angst. It's starting to feel OOC (or more than usual) and for that i sincerely apologise. At least the next chapter is almost done, so you won't have to wait long this time. Anyway uhh do keep the comments coming bc they are literally one of my biggest boosts of serotonin. I love u all so much!!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all are fucking ANGELS. Anyway, here's another chapter. Nice n long, with some smut and vanerackham love. Hope you all enjoy <3 <3
> 
> (Maybe one day i'll stop adding notes like the My Immortal author to every fucking chapter, but it is not this day lmao)

“John,” Flint’s voice rumbles low in his ear. John hums in response, nuzzling closer into the heat enveloping him. “John, you’re killing me here.”

The thing is, John really doesn’t care. He’s never been more comfortable in his life, half draped on top of another warm body. God, he can’t remember the last time he got to have this. He just lets out a low groan in protest at being woken up and urged to move, instead just nuzzling once again into the nape of Flint’s neck.

“If I lose a nut because of your stubborn weight pinning me down, I may have to seriously re-evaluate our relationship.”

“Fine,” John groans. He shifts his right leg, which is draped over Flint’s left and lies comfortably – alright, comfortably for him, clearly not for Flint – nestled between the man’s thighs. “Better?”

“You’re still pressing down on my dick.”

“I’m not getting off of you.”

“Can I offer up the alternative option of getting me off instead?”

John’s eyes shoot open at that to find Flint smirking at him. _Bastard._ “God, you’re so easy,” the man jokes. “Kidding. But seriously, if you’re thinking of getting me off anywhere in the distant future, get off my dick.”

“Spoilsport,” John mutters as he rolls over and away from the absolute _furnace_ that Flint’s body is. “God, it’s fucking freezing. I thought it was summer.”

“It’s also Britain,” Flint reminds him with a grunt as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. John realises the guy has a point; the light filtering in through the curtains is a dreary grey, and he can hear rain pattering against the windows.

“Upon second thought, fuck leaving the house today,” John decides. “Call in sick for work, no-one comes to the beach on days like these anyway. We can stay in bed for three more hours, have tea, watch something awful on TV. I wonder if Bargain Hunt is still a thing?”

“Bargain Hunt will _always_ be a thing,” Flint points out, his voice carrying over from the bathroom where John can hear him taking a piss. “Also, how dare you call Bargain Hunt awful? Apologise to Anita.”

“You know the presenters’ names?”

“Listen, I’m a broken old man haunted by nightmares of war. Allow me my comforts.” He reappears again, face freshly washed, and John smiles.

“Alright, in that case, we will unironically watch Bargain Hunt. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a fucking delight, except I’m going to work and you’re going to Charles’,” Flint replies.

“What!? Just because _you’re_ forced to leave the house doesn’t mean I have to,” John protests. “I think I’ll stay right here, thank you very much.”

But Flint gives him a Look, and suddenly he feels his heart sink. “You told Vane I was coming over, didn’t you?”

“And you’re not backing out,” Flint tells him. “You’ve seen that man’s humour – imagine cancelling plans on him.”

“Hilarious.”

“He’ll crack your head like a walnut on his abs.”

“You know,” John points out, “I don’t think that’s how abs work.”

“His can do it,” Flint retorts. “I’m gonna make breakfast – you should probably get dressed soon.”

“Jesus, when is he expecting me!?”

“Oh, not for another hour or two,” Flint tells him. “But the bus only shows up once every half hour, and you’re not going to want to miss it.”

“Remember how you said something about re-evaluating our relationship?”

“You’re not ending things with me over being forced to take the bus on a rainy day.”

“No? Give me one good reason as to why not.”

“I’ve not sucked you off yet.”

“ _Jesus_ , Flint,” John swears. “You know what? Fuck waiting around. And fuck breakfast.” He tosses back the blanket. “Don’t make me put on my leg, here.”

“But if I suck you off now, you can break things off with me after to avoid getting on that bus,” Flint points out even as he makes his way over anyway, a glint in his eye as his pupils dilate. He’s still wearing one of the old shirts he likes to sleep in, and John can’t help but tug him closer by the hem of it so that the man slots between his bare legs. He loves seeing Flint in the thing, loves seeing him dishevelled and soft almost as much as he loves seeing him in the captain’s outfit, historic sleeves rolled up to reveal thousands of freckles. He just loves seeing Flint in anything, really.

Flint seems to enjoy the gaze with which John is drinking him in, for he smiles and leans into John’s space. John feels his breath falter for a moment, can feel the heat radiate from Flint’s body. But then Flint reaches behind him to grab a pillow, which he places down to rest his knees on. Now that he’s there, on eye level with John’s crotch, John feels his mouth dry. God, he wants so badly to kiss the man, but he wants even more to occupy his mouth with something else.

That something of course being his dick.

“You good down there?” he asks, and his voice comes out treacherously hoarse. Flint’s hands are on his thighs, _radiating_ heat, and _oh god_ , this is all very real. God, he can’t remember the last time someone blew him. But Flint nods and gives his thighs a gentle squeeze that says, _You?_ So John gives a shaky nod. Oh yeah. He’s good. Great, even. He’s starting to get the idea that man or woman, he really doesn’t care that much who’s between his legs in the moment. He might still be on the fence about how the outside perceives him, but in bed? At the breakfast table? In private moments? Yeah, he doesn’t give a shit.

A slow smile spreads on Flint’s face, and just the sight of it punches a low gasp from John. Oh, he’s pathetically weak sometimes. Flint’s hands slide up his bare thighs, inching ever closer to the edge of his boxer briefs, but his eyes never leave John’s.

“I want you to know,” he says, “that you’re free to stop me at any point. And you’re free to ask me to try anything.”

“Yeah, great,” John replies breathlessly. “Now _please_ get your mouth on me.”

Flint holds his gaze for a moment longer, but then he dips down and sucks an open-mouthed kiss into the top of John’s thigh. John lets out a sigh of relief.

“If you’re already this responsive, I can’t imagine how noisy you’ll be when I get going,” Flint mutters against his skin. John grabs one of the smaller pillows and bops him over the head.

“Good thing you live on a deserted stretch of beach then,” he replies. Flint’s expression at that draws a bubble of laughter from him, but the man quickly manages to stop him short when he suddenly places his mouth against John’s groin, sucking through the fabric and pressing the flat of his tongue against the crease between his thigh and his balls. It is _painful_ how fast his cock fully hardens then, and John throws back his head in a litany of swears.

“Good?” Flint asks, and John bops him over the head again with the pillow, for which he receives a softly murderous glare.

“I am literally losing my mind up here,” John tells him. “Stop fucking with me and start fucking me.”

“Are you sure? Because I don’t want us to move too fast –”

John swings the pillow once more, but this time Flint catches it and tosses it across the room. “I’m taking away your weapon,” he tells him. John raises an eyebrow.

“You know you have like, four more pillows up here, right? Not to mention the ‘weapon’ I yield in my –”

But Flint is clearly done playing, and before John can even finish his sentence, his briefs have been yanked off to reveal his dick, curving up at an angle against the jut of his hip. “Finally,” he mutters, but once again Flint knows exactly how to shut him up. He licks a stripe up the length of him, and John’s mind just _whites out_.

Their conversation may have ended there, but that doesn’t mean John is any quieter for it. From there on he finds himself moaning, groaning, swearing, and encouraging Flint at every given moment. Flint for his part is taking his time, exploring the length of John’s cock with his mouth in minute detail, running his tongue along every ridge, brushing his lips against every curve. He laps up the beads of precum leaking down John’s shaft hungrily – almost reverently – and John can’t remember anyone who’s ever been this thorough, this giving, and so utterly into it.

And then he gets his mouth on John, _properly_ , sucking him down bit by bit until he’s swallowed him down as far as he can go. His mouth keeps working as his hands roll and play with the skin on John’s balls, and John is writhing, panting hard as he watches Flint practically worship him. He can feel _everything_ , can feel the dry calluses of his fingers lightly scratch against his skin, can feel the tickle of his beard and moustache, all of it brought together and heightened by the hot wetness of Flint’s mouth, and it’s just _so much_.

“Shit,” he mutters, “oh god, Flint, I can’t – how are you – _fuck, oh, like that_ –” And he can’t form a proper sentence, not a single coherent thought wants to take full shape. He feels it build, and for the briefest of moments he panics for some reason he can’t fathom. But then, Flint reaches up with one hand, squeezing his thigh before slipping up further and pressing down on his stomach, his chest, and John takes his hand and feels grounded and _safe._

His orgasm hits him like a tidal wave, washing over him and dragging him along in its wake until he doesn’t know what’s up or down anymore.

He lies there panting for a moment, clad in only the shirt he slept in, while Flint comes up to fall down on the mattress beside him. John casts him a sideways glance, but rather than some expectant look, he’s met with simple happiness.

“You want me to…”

“Only if you like.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

Flint laughs, but it turns into a breathless gasp as John brushes his fingers against the man’s groin. He’s hard, leaking even if the wet patch in his briefs is anything to go by.

“You _really_ enjoyed that, didn’t you?” John asks in quiet amazement. Flint shrugs.

“I find it soothing, to focus all my attention on something so singular,” he answers a little breathlessly as John starts stroking him through the fabric. John hums in agreement.

“You _are_ very single-minded,” he replies. “Utterly dedicated to the one thing occupying your mind. Am I right?” He watches Flint’s face closely, studies how the man’s eyes flutter shut and a smile tugs at his lips as he huffs in pleasure before nodding in assent. He starts to truly explore then, slipping his hand into Flint’s briefs.

His cock is _hot_. It never really registered with him, the warmth of a cock, the solidity of it in his hand; usually his mind focuses too much on the sensation of his hand on his own length, not on the feeling of it in his grip. He carefully gives a gentle squeeze, and it punches a groan from Flint.

“Careful,” the man tells him, his voice a little strained. “It’s hard to estimate how hard you’re squeezing when it’s someone else’s.”

“Oh,” John mutters, releasing him. “Sorry.”

“ _God_ – that doesn’t mean I want you to stop.”

At that, John lets out a chuckle. “Be patient with me,” he tells Flint. “You’re my first.”

At that, Flint laughs. It’s clear John isn’t a virgin by any means – the intensity of his orgasm from a mere blowjob notwithstanding, but he writes it down as having been out of action for _quite_ a while – but Flint nods, understanding him anyway. He gives a little nod. “Try things,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll pick it up quickly.” He hands John a bottle of lube from his nightstand, and John gratefully squirts a little dollop into the palm of his hand.

He carefully begins to explore the length of Flint with his fingers. Feels the shape of it, familiar and yet foreign. He watches Flint intently as he goes, learning his more sensitive spots, his favoured tugs and strokes. He rolls the weight of the man’s balls in the palm of his hand, and Flint seems to really like that, so he does it again, and once more for good luck.

He starts tugging in earnest then, and it turns out Flint can be noisy too. The man gasps, barely holds back groans, and when John really manages to hit gold, he lets out a litany of swears that would make a sailor blush.

“Shit – John –”

“You getting there?”

“Yeah. Fuck, like that – just keep doing that –”

John gladly obliges, and before he knows it, Flint arches off the bed as he spills into John’s hand. He collapses back onto the mattress, and blissfully fucked out, the men remain there, lying side by side.

“You know, you’re gonna have to go if you don’t want to miss the bus,” Flint says after a moment of peace.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Perhaps some other time. I don’t think you’ve quite recovered yet.”

John lets out a breathless little laugh. Here, in his post-orgasm haze, he’ll just about agree to anything. Visiting Charles, Jack and Anne… It doesn’t seem nearly as daunting as it did when he woke up. Getting up from the bed and walking across the beach to the bus stop on the other hand? Disgusting. Ridiculous. _Especially_ in the rain, which is still pouring outside.

“You know, I can practically _hear_ you thinking,” Flint tells him. John rolls his eyes.

“Fine, whatever,” he responds with a groan as he pushes up into a sitting position. “But I’m stealing your umbrella.”

“An umbrella? On the coast? Hate to disappoint, but it is _far_ too windy here for those to have any use. Break instantly, umbrellas.” Oh, John doesn’t trust that tone _at all_.

He watches as Flint gets up from the bed with a grunt, grimacing at the cooling come in his briefs. John can’t believe they didn’t even manage to get properly undressed for their first time together. In his head, he for some reason imagined it to be some romantic, drawn-out thing. Probably an expectation set by just knowing how fucking domestic Flint can be. He doesn’t mind how it actually went, though. It was good, familial without much awkwardness. It had felt like they’d been doing this for years. John wonders if it’s because of how well he’s learned to read Flint. Or perhaps it’s down to that domestic air Flint creates around him after all.

He definitely won’t stand still at the thought that maybe, Flint has learned to read him too.

When Flint turns away from the dresser to face John, his smile looks positively _menacing_. He’s holding something glossy in his hands, and John’s heart sinks.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s this, or risk arriving looking like you swam there.”

“What if someone recognises me from online!?”

“Here?” Flint barks out a laugh. He’s walking over now, and John suppresses the urge to scramble backwards. “Our local population is largely made of geriatrics. You won’t bump into your followers here. Besides, I’ve seen your hair on rainy days. You’re a vain man, Silver. Something tells me you won’t risk it.”

“But I…” John despairs, but Flint is right. The wind outside is howling around the cabin, lashing the rain against the windows. “Are you sure I can’t cancel?”

“You’re meeting my friends, John. Remember the abs.”

“You know, I still don’t think Vane can crack my skull on them, no matter what you say,” John retorts in one final attempt, but he knows he’s lost. His head hanging, he reaches out to take the rain poncho from Flint’s hands. God, it’s bright pink, too. “You really don’t have anything better?”

“No, because I need my coat for when I head into work later.”

“I’d like to take my jizz back now, please.”

Flint bursts out laughing at that. “Oh, I bet,” he replies mirthfully.

“Where did you get this monstrosity, anyway?” John asks as he prepares to get dressed. “Doesn’t seem your style, though perhaps I don’t know you well enough yet.”

“Miranda,” comes the simple reply, and yeah, John admits that sounds about right. She had a mischievous glint in her eye when he met her that seemed suspiciously permanent in nature.

It turns out, John was absolutely right to insist on staying at home. Even with the hot pink rain poncho and his hood raised, being outside is a nightmare. The sand sucks to walk on, wet or dry, and he feels like he’s getting _hammered_ by the drops, the noise of it on the plastic hood deafening. Luckily there’s a shelter at the bus stop, but it turns out that Flint is one of those people who will lie about just how much time and urgency there is in order to get other people to be on time, which means John still has to wait ten minutes for the fucking bus to show. It might be summer, but it’s about twelve degrees, and he’s shivering violently.

Luckily, the trip on the bus doesn’t take too long. The beach is only twenty minutes out of the town centre, and he spends his time updating his Instagram. His pics of the road trip and the select few from his photoshoot with Flint on the beach that he felt comfortable in sharing have blown up since he posted them, giving him nearly fifteen hundred more followers. He snorts as he now uploads a selfie to show off his latest look, not even as a story but as a post in its own right. He despises the poncho, but he can’t deny that it is a _look_ – even if it is a bad one. Let the internet know that he’s got the range.

“Oh, you look _desperate_ for tea,” Jack says as he opens the door. John is drenched and feeling very disgruntled, not to mention frozen to the bone. From what John assumes must be the living room off to the side of the entry hall, he can hear Anne snort.

“Jack’s saying you look like dogshit,” she calls out. John takes off his shoes and quickly shrugs off the poncho before making his way through, and as soon as Anne lays eyes on him, she bursts out laughing.

“Yeah,” John replies drily, “I gathered.”

The house doesn’t look particularly cosy or lived in. It’s nothing like Flint’s cabin, which oozes a sense of _home_. Instead, this place is sparse and drab. John can tell where Jack attempted to spruce up the place, but as colourful as the man is in his dress sense, his interior decorating skills leave much to be desired. Anne’s hair is a splash of colour against the beige and brown.

“Nice to see you too,” John tells her in way of greeting. Charles emerges from another door that leads into the room, holding a sickeningly vibrant tray with four mugs of steaming tea, a sugar bowl, and a little jug of milk balanced on it. John gratefully takes one of the mugs to cradle his hands around.

“So,” he says as he awkwardly sits down beside Anne, “I take it Jack doesn’t live here?”

Beside him, Anne snorts again, and Jack smiles. He’s sat across from John on the other sofa, shuffled to the edge and hunched over his own mug while Charles is man-spreading wider than anyone John has ever set eyes on, arm slung across the backrest of the couch behind Jack. Their contrast is even more staggering in their clothing choices; Charles is dressed in a simple brown shirt and black trousers, while Jack is wearing what essentially is a long blue jumper that doubles as a dress, complete with violet leggings underneath. “No,” he says. “I do not live here. What gave it away?”

“Just a hunch, really.” John taps the tray. “I see you’ve tried to make an impression, though.”

“Actually, that’s from the mother-in-law,” Charles pipes up, and John nearly chokes on his tea.

“Adopted mother-in-law,” Jack adds, as if that explains _anything_.

“Wait, so are you two married or not?”

And so, John ends up hearing the whole history of Jack Rackham, a queer trans man from Brighton. He’s a little older than Anne, and he kept her safe when she went clubbing for the first time at far too young an age with some other kids from the countryside. They explored the LGBT spaces of the city together, learning about their identity alongside one another. Jack was rejected by his own parents for his identity and sexuality, but he doesn’t seem too perturbed when telling so. Apparently, when Anne met Max, Jack naturally ended up tagging along – as he did with anything in Anne’s life, and she in his. It’s how he met Max’s ex’s grandmother, who ended up unofficially adopting him as her own son. She sounds like a tough old woman with more fondness for Max than for Jack, but honestly, John could be wrong. He’s a bit lost in all the connections, feeling rather like that manic guy from _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia_ with the clue board. Apparently, it was madam Guthrie who was the one to decide that Charles needs more colour and doilies in his house – though of course, Jack had a hand in some of the decorations too.

It turns out, Jack _loves_ telling stories. He does so with a certain dramatic flair that John can absolutely find himself in, and he laughs and engages in the ridiculously convoluted and colourful tales of Jack Rackham.

The story of Jack’s life continues with meeting Charles, back when Flint still ran the _Walrus_. Charles had still been in the Navy, and he’d been visiting Flint while on shore leave. Some of the _Walrus_ crew had asked him out to the pub just as Jack had been in town to visit Anne, and that’s when they met. They’d both initially been utterly baffled by one another – buff military man oozing heterosexuality and hypermasculinity versus what essentially looked like a chicken from the ‘80s dipped in a vat full of radioactive glitter was bound to be a strange pair, and it naturally took them a while to warm up to one another. But when some homophobic piece of shit tried to start a fight with Jack, Charles immediately stepped in. Noses were broken, homophobes were defeated, and the evening was saved.

Funnily enough, it was Anne who latched herself onto Charles after that. While Jack and Charles remained casually snide with each other in a stubborn refusal to acknowledge their developing feelings, Anne was the one to constantly tell them to get their heads out of their asses and stop acting like fucking toddlers. She was the one to declare that Anne and Jack were keeping Charles, and she was the one who stayed in touch when Charles went back overseas for deployment, sending the occasional text once or twice a week. Charles, who was only really used to that jock-like brotherhood that permeates the military and who didn’t really have any friends outside the world of the Navy, had bemusedly let it happen, and had even started messaging back.

One day, he decided to send Jack a message as well, though he’s still uncertain as to what possessed him. Jack, who had been baffled, had of course replied, and before long they were corresponding regularly. It turns out that even with Charles’ military rank, both men hold a bit of an aversion to authority figures and have a mean stubborn streak. According to Jack, he’s never had more fun arguing than he has with Charles.

The stories darken then, and John feels his heart grow cold as he listens to Jack talk about the time when Charles came home. Honourably discharged after sustaining injuries and trauma, he’d been shaking and near-mute. Jack had come to pick him up at the docks, simply taken his hand and walked him to the bus station. Rather than home – if there even had really been such a thing for Charles, who had spent the majority of his adult life abroad – Jack had taken him to his own place in Brighton, where they’d stayed together for several months.

As much as it helped Charles find his footing and start speaking again, the city had been too big, too noisy, and living together had soon started to get under his skin. It was Flint, who by then was already living on the coast, who suggested coming to Cornwall instead. That way, Charles could be near familiar people who knew what he’d been through and be within walking distance of a veteran centre with Flint’s stamp of approval. Charles agreed, and here, he’d finally found the ability to breathe again. Jack’s and Charles’ relationship, if it could even be called that back then, had only benefitted, giving them both the space they needed to reflect on where they stood towards each other.

John finds himself shook to the core by how candidly the men speak about their past and their emotions. For all they know, John is a stranger, a friend of a friend. He’d expected Charles especially to be closed-off about this, or perhaps even aggressive to Jack about revealing emotional weaknesses like these. But the man doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by discussions of trauma and love, instead simply letting Jack talk as he sits back and occasionally chips in.

They go through several cups of tea and two vinyls of Bowie as they chat. It’s all bizarrely _mature_. John would’ve thought he’d hate things like this; coming over for tea, chatting the afternoon away. It’s something belonging to another generation, in his opinion. He’s still young – he should be running around on the beach or going to pubs, trying to score a one-night stand, get drunk. Not… _this_. And yet, John finds that he’s secretly enjoying himself. He’s always been interested learning about other people, even if he used to do it as a survival mechanism. As long as he doesn’t have to talk about himself, he can manage, uncomfortable as he feels with the candidness at times. Jack really makes the whole thing much more bearable with his incredible ability to both sound deadpan and down-to-earth as well as somehow still adding a ridiculously dramatic flair.

Besides, John’s lived the crazy student life. It didn’t turn out well. Perhaps, this is what he needs instead.

“So what’s the deal now?” he asks as Jack puts on a Pink Floyd album next, for which Charles gratefully pecks him on the cheek. Anne hands John another mug of tea, which he takes despite desperately needing a piss. “You don’t live here, but you visit regularly?”

“I come over during holidays and weekends,” Jack tells him. “I’m a teacher back in Brighton, so any opportunity to get as far away from teenagers and come to the sleepiest seaside village in Britain, I take. Granted, the queer scene here is _appalling_ – far too many Tories, if you ask me – but they’re getting used to me, and that’s all I can ask for. As long as they don’t ban me from the one bar that hosts a weekly karaoke, I’m satisfied.”

Anne makes an exceptionally snide remark at that – something about Jack’s singing skills – and John watches the three of them bicker back and forth for a while. They don’t seem like people who talk about emotions or love easily – apart from Jack, apparently – nor do they seem very capable of showing love in conventional ways, but John can see it etched on their faces all the same, can hear it in every snarky comment. They just seem so utterly comfortable around him, with not a care in the world as to how he perceives or judges them; perhaps due to the fact that at least two out of the three could easily kill him where he stands. They’re happy enough to divulge in their pasts and present, and John honestly feels overwhelmed.

It’s only a moment later that he finds himself hyperventilating in the tiny downstairs bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and neck. When Flint told him to meet his friends, this isn’t what John had expected. The more the men divulged, the more John wanted to hide, retreat in his shell and have none of them know him. He likes putting up a front, he’s realised; it’s why he enjoys Instagram so much. He gets to be whoever he wants to be, with no-one truly knowing him who he is underneath.

There’s a knock on the door, and his head snaps up. “Just a second,” he calls out, but his voice is hoarse, betraying him.

“You alright?” Anne’s voice drawls gruffly from the other side of the door. John swallows.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Just… it’s a lot.”

“Yeah.” She’s silent for a moment, but then John hears a strange shuffling noise. When she speaks again, her voice comes from nearer to the floor, and he realises she’s slid down to sit with her back against the door. “Jack likes to talk,” she says, and John barks out a laugh. He closes the toilet lid and sits down.

“You’re not kidding,” he replies.

“Look, if you don’t wanna be here no more, I get it,” Anne replies. “Fuck knows, I hate social shit like this.”

“I mean, if it were small-talk, I’d probably have lost my mind to boredom by now,” John replies. “But instead it’s life stories. I can’t exactly walk out on that, can I? Besides,” he says, and his tone turns just a little bitter, “Flint wants me to get to know his friends.”

“Don’t see the harm in that,” Anne says, but John laughs.

“It just feels really fucking permanent,” he replies. “I mean, it’s fair, I guess. It’s just…”

“Like you’re sharin’ a life.”

“Which we’re not! I live three hours away, this is the first time we’ve met!”

“Cut the shit, Silver. You’ve been dating for months.”

“I’m sorry, where do you get that idea?”

“Max.”

John lets out an agonised groan. God, he hates this, hates being put on the spot and made to feel vulnerable.

“You know, I ain’t never really dated anyone before Max,” Anne quietly admitted through the door. “Fucked a couple of guys out in the countryside –”

“Is that a real thing, then? Rolling in the hay, out in the barn?”

“Go fuck yourself. Point is, I didn’t really… do relationships. People… I wouldn’t say they scare me, but cows are definitely easier.”

John snorts at that. “I’ve never spent time with a cow, but honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if you were right,” he replies.

“Look, John, at some point you’re gonna have to fuckin’ admit that you’re not alone in the world. You’re connected to people. You’ve got friends. You’re dating someone, whether you wanna grow a fuckin’ pair and admit it or not, and he’s got friends too.”

“But do I have to know them so… _intimately_?”

“Jack’s all or nothing. Can’t deal with it, then don’t. But he’s part of Flint’s life through Charles, and so he’s gonna be part of yours too.”

“See, you say ‘don’t deal with it if you can’t handle it’, but what I’m hearing is ‘you’re stuck with them, _tough luck’_.”

“…Yeah.”

“Great.” John sighs. “Just as long as I don’t have to tell them my life story.”

“I think you’ll be fine for now.”

When they emerge again, Jack is holding out a beer. “Five o’clock somewhere,” the man says, bearing an apologetic little smile. John instantly likes him a little better.

The alcohol helps. Tensions decrease, and soon John finds himself laughing along again to the absolute _bullshit_ Jack spouts on occasion. He’s a smooth talker – in fact, he does most of the talking there, outdoing John even – but some of the things he says are just poetic idiocy.

“What do you teach, anyway?” John asks at some point.

“Oh, too much,” Jack tells him. “English Literature is my main subject, but I also teach Art and Drama. Poorly, mind you.”

“Shut up,” Charles tells him, and Jack nods.

“You’re absolutely right darling, talking myself down again. Truly though, I don’t have a single painter’s bone in my body, but that’s what theory books are for. I can guide and encourage, but if someone wants me to paint something realistic, I’m out.”

“Call it abstract and have it done with,” Anne points out, and again Jack raises his bottle of beer to that.

“That’s my motto,” he agrees wholeheartedly. “Art has a power, it leaves an _impact_ , but I’ll stick to telling other kids that rather than making that impact myself.”

“Is he okay?” John asks Charles, who chuckles and shakes his head.

“Probably not.”

“Now literature,” Jack starts, and Anne groans. “Hey, just because it’s not _your_ favourite – John, you ever read Brönte?”

“I uh, kinda skipped literature,” John admits. Jack’s face contorts.

“Heathen. Anyway, I would _murder_ anyone who criticises the sisters.”

“You’d also kill Rogers if he still lived.”

“Woodes Rogers isn’t a Brönte hater, he just wrote the most fictional piece of non-fiction that graces our history and can go fuck himself.”

“Then why do you teach his material?”

“Because sometimes you have to pull out an example of _bad_ literature, and I thoroughly enjoy ripping into his work when discussing biographies. Plus, the school wants me to discuss at least _one_ work that ties into maritime history. Fucking seaside towns, I tell you. Brighton might be more progressive than here, but even they can’t resist jacking off to memories of the Empire every now and then. That’s high school curriculums for you, I suppose.”

John is starting to enjoy himself more and more as the day goes on. He can see why Flint hangs out with these people; Charles is curt and stoic in a way that reminds John of Flint on his quieter days. And Jack is… Well, he’s a character. John is still trying to figure out how much he can say he likes them, but he thinks that the next time he’s staying at Flint’s and these guys come over for a beer on the beach, he won’t have to feel left out. In fact, he’s managed to chat his way into their midst quite quickly, it seems, engaging with Jack’s opinions on anything and everything and making Anne laugh more than once. Even Charles cracks a smile multiple times.

“Hey, it’s Saturday, right?” Charles asks at one point. “Should we take John to the _Gull’s_?”

Jack checks the clock, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, absolutely,” he replies. “Yes. Let’s go.”

“Wait, where are we going?” John asks, scrambling to get up and put on the hideous pink plastic poncho.

“Restaurant on the beach,” Anne tells him. “ _Gull’s Wing._ Food’s mediocre from what I remember, but it’s decent enough for lunch.”

“Something tells me we’re in for more than lunch,” John points out as he sees the spark in Jack’s eyes. Charles, who hasn’t had a beer like the others did – trying to stay away from alcohol before eight, at the request of his therapist – takes the car keys.

“Lunch and a show,” he says, and something clicks in John’s mind.

“Is Flint…”

“Oh yes,” Jack smirks, and John laughs.

“Well then, let’s go.”

Like every other building on the beach, the _Gull’s Wing_ stands on stilts, looking out over the beach and the waves. It’s nice and light inside, with large windows on every side to showcase the view. It looks new-built and a tad cheap, clearly not a place for expensive dinners. The gang orders some fish and chips, and like Anne said, it’s not exactly earth-shattering, but the fish is fresh and the chips still have the potato skin on, making them nice and crispy.

“So,” John says when they’ve all received their food, “you mentioned a show?”

Charles smirks at that. “Kids’ corner,” he says in form of reply. John looks around, and he notices there’s a little side-room, filled with colour and foam furniture. The wall separating it from the main dining area provides a bit of a noise barrier, but is made largely of glass so any worried parents can watch their kids while they eat. A few of those parents are sitting near the room, and John has to crane his neck to see what’s going on inside. But when he finally manages to catch a glimpse, his face breaks into a grin.

Flint is wearing the old-fashioned shirt he once wore during their facetime session, but it is largely covered under a broad waistbelt and a swishy black pirate coat. He’s got a fake cutlass hanging from the belt, a tricorn hat on his head and an eyepatch covering one of his eyes. The other eye however is visibly shining as he speaks animatedly, drawing in a crowd of kids who are all hanging from his lips. John can’t hear what Flint is saying, but whatever it is, it must be a fascinating tale indeed.

“Mister Flint, mister Flint!” one of the kids cries with his hand high in the air. Flint narrows his eye at the boy, and his response sends the kid scampering to hide behind what must be his older brother.

“Wish I could hear what he’s saying,” Jack says, voicing John’s thoughts. “But we always keep our distance. Don’t wanna freak out the parents, you know?”

“Ten quid his exact words were _‘that’s_ captain _Flint to you’_ ,” John says as he chews, deserving a mildly appalled look from Jack. Charles snorts.

“Probably,” he agrees.

They watch the scene unfurl for a while longer. Flint never notices them, too wrapped up in his dramatics. There is an intensity in his eyes that John has seen several times before; a dedication to a singular goal that makes the rest of the world fall away.

“God, you have it bad, don’t you?” Jack pipes up, and John instantly feels incredibly seen. Anne bursts out laughing at blush staining his cheeks.

“Oh yeah, he’s a fuckin’ mess,” she says, causing John to fully start sulking. “You should see what Max says.”

“Traitors,” John says. “The lot of you.”

“What the – _why are you here_!?”

John’s head snaps up at the sound of Flint’s voice. The man looks flushed, hiding his eyepatch and tricorn behind his back. The ridiculously fake plastic sword is still hanging from his belt, though, and there is a strong red line around his eye where the patch dug into his skin. It instantly improves John’s mood.

“Dinner and a show,” he replies, and Flint frowns.

“Silver, it’s lunch time.”

“Still, a show is a show.”

God, it’s not every day that John gets to see Flint blush. It is a _delightful_ sight.

“Go grab yourself a fish and join us,” Jack tells him. Flint clears his throat.

“Yeah,” he replies, clearly a little off-kilter. “Yeah, I’ll… do that.”

“I thought you guys said you’ve come to see him before?” John asks as he watches Flint walk off to the counter. Charles smirks.

“Sure,” he replies. “But we’re not you.”

“Seems _he’s_ far gone too,” Anne pipes up, and John wants to throw them all over the edge of the observation deck into the sea.

“So, what’s today’s story?” Jack asks as Flint joins them again. He still looks a bit bemused and uncertain of what to make of John’s presence.

“Flint versus the Barbary Corsairs, part one,” Flint answers.

“You mean _captain_ Flint?” Anne asks innocently, and the man narrows his eyes at them.

“I thought you guys didn’t catch anything from what I was telling?” he says. Jack groans before fishing a tenner out of his wallet and handing it to John, who whoops. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

“Does it not get too bloody for the kids?” John asks. “What even counts as appropriate? Do kids get nightmares?”

“ _Do kids get_ – James, where on earth did you pick this one up? I’m not sure he’s human.”

“Just because you like kids, Jack, don’t mean we all know how to handle ‘em.”

“Anne, he’s _been_ a kid. Or at least I assumed he was, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Look, just because I repressed half my childhood –”

“Feel that,” Charles pipes in, and Jack just grimaces throughout the entire exchange.

“Well, all I have to say to all that is _yikes_ ,” he declares. “James, I beg you, provide some levity here. Distract us, before I have to call everyone’s and my own therapist.”

It turns out, hanging out with the trio is a lot easier when Flint is around. He’s safe ground for John to refer to when he feels out of depth, his dry wit and sarcasm putting Charles and Jack in their place when they get too forward or say anything too outrageous.

“You guys staying for a few beers?” Flint asks, but Anne shakes her head.

“Sorry, Flint,” she tells him, “but I think John and I need to head back to the city tomorrow. Got jobs ‘n all that, you know? I ain’t driving with my head not screwed on right.” She gives John a look that weighs a tonne, and he swallows before giving her the tiniest of grateful nods. “Early night for me, an’ for him too, I’d reckon.”

“Hey, I can sleep in the car,” John protests, but a hint of a smile tugs at Anne’s lips. She’s _teasing_ him. How the fuck did they get here this quickly? “Whatever. I’ll be in bed by ten.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Flint pipes up, and Jack barks out a laugh.

“You’re a rotten liar. Just don’t fuck him until three in the morning.”

“Like he said,” Flint replies with a faint smirk, “John can always sleep in the car.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Been a little while hasn't it 😅 not sure when the next chapter will be since my brain is currently in more of an art mood than a writing mood and i seem to be in a slightly odd headspace atm, but i hope this ties you over for now. Bit of a shorter chapter, and from Flint's perspective 😊 enjoy!

The weather clears up the next day, and James stares wistfully at the blue sky as he walks down the beach to the tourist shop, where he’ll be helping to sell buckets and floaties for the next eight hours. It’s promising to be another hot summer day, and every time he closes his eyes, he imagines John in Anne’s convertible, the roof down, the wind in his curls. Say what you like about the man – and James has _plenty_ to say – he’s certainly pleasant to look at.

Jack had been right, the bastard. The two had spent until late in the night naked between the sheets. While James might be a bit older and more world-weary, he’s still perfectly capable of experiencing that honeymoon phase where nothing seems to take too much energy. John has thrown himself at the challenge of catching up in knowledge and capability with men, and his enthusiasm in both giving and receiving these new pleasures has been infectious. James is trying his best to walk as normally as possible in order not to arouse suspicion from the woman who he’ll be working in the shop with, something that is made just a little harder by the fact that John managed to finger him for nearly two hours last night.

He stops and closes his eyes for a second, breathing in the salty smell of the waves, feeling the sand shift beneath his feet. He needs to stop thinking of John and his very deft fingers, or there is no way he’ll get through this day.

After a slightly gruelling shift under the corrugated metal roof – even the south coast of Britain isn’t built for heat, despite the fact that it occurs more frequently here, so the weather is absolute _murder_ – he makes his way over to Miranda’s. Her house is just outside the little town, built in the eighteenth century, and frankly too large for a single woman to live in by herself, so James does his best to visit as often as possible. When he arrives, he finds her working in the vegetable garden out back.

“James,” she exclaims in delight, wiping her hands on her ancient brown dungarees before getting up to come and greet him. James can see a new patch has been sewn onto her right knee, and he laughs.

“Is it still not time to retire those?” he asks as he indicates her outfit. Her expression instantly shifts to one of indignation.

“My mother bought these in the seventies,” she reminds him for what is probably the hundredth time. “And I will be buried in them, right here between the vegetables, so don’t you dare ask again.”

“The aubergines will grow strong on your flesh,” he tells her, and she beams as he presses a kiss against her cheek.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” she asks as she guides him to sit in the shade of the house, where she pours him a glass of lemonade from a decanter. “Has your beau finally gone home, then?”

James’ face contorts. “Do we have to talk about this?” he asks, and Miranda sighs.

“James, dear,” she tells him, “you’re allowed to discuss your relationship with him. We see each other at least three times a week; you can’t avoid the topic forever.”

“I just…” he sighs. “It feels wrong.”

“If you can’t even talk about your relationship with him…”

“This isn’t about John.”

Miranda huffs, then covers the irritation with one of her myriad of smiles. “This is about Thomas.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“One day, you will learn to let go of him.”

“What if I can’t?”

Miranda puts her own glass of lemonade aside and takes his hand, her thumb ever so gently rubbing over his knuckles. “Then life may get very complicated for you,” she says. “I can see you change right as I’m looking at you, James. John has… awoken something in you again.”

James barks out a laugh at that. “He’s a challenge, alright.”

Miranda smiles, and this time it’s not wistful, but rather full of mirth and curiosity. “Do tell.”

“He…” James sighs. Is he going to do this? Is he going to talk to his ex-slash-late-lover’s widow about his new fling?

Fuck it. It’s Miranda. She loves him, and she loves hearing about things like this.

“We challenge each other,” he eventually manages. “He pushes me, I push back, and vice versa. He’s just so _curious,_ Miranda. And he can’t resist near _anything_ , it seems, regardless of how good or bad the consequences might be. You know that proverb about poking sleeping bears with a stick? That’s John. Just constantly poking.”

“That must land him in some trouble,” Miranda laughs.

“Yeah, sometimes it backfires. He’s very good at adapting to new situations, though.”

“You seem to know him well.”

James falls silent at that. “In a way, I suppose,” he finally manages. “But there are parts of him that are a mystery to me. He shuts off a part of himself. There’s a reason he’s so intuitive, Miranda. So adaptable. And his curiosity borders on self-destructive at times. He seems to respect my boundaries, I can tell he’s trying so hard – perhaps he’s wary of crossing emotional borders.” He falls silent for a brief moment as something clicks in his mind. “In fact, it seems the one area he navigates more carefully, with more skill. He’s _very_ socially intelligent. It’s mostly things that affect _him_ that he seems unable to resist.”

“Self-destructive indeed,” Miranda agrees, her eyebrows only _slightly_ raised. “Are you in trouble?”

James groans, because yes, he absolutely is. “Look, I know there are issues. I know there’s _something_ in his life that he needs to fucking address. Christ, the man is nearly thirty and he works in a diner, spending his life becoming an _influencer_.” He sighs. “Is this a midlife crisis, Miranda? What on earth am I doing with him?”

“You’re happy,” she notes simply. “He might be stuck in life, but are you doing much better?” James winces at that. “He’s clearly intelligent, and he keeps you on your toes. He draws you in, and he challenges you. He might not have the same drive and moral convictions Thomas did, but there are at least a couple of similarities. It seems to me that you have a type.”

“Clever bastards who make my life difficult?”

“Exactly.”

James laughs. “Christ,” he mutters. “You know what, I’d like to talk about something else than my fucking… whatever he is to me. How’s politics?”

“A nightmare,” Miranda replies, seamlessly transitioning into the new topic. “Remind me why I joined the local constituency?”

“Thomas,” James replies, and Miranda laughs.

“Of course.”

They move inside after that, where James helps Miranda wash some of the herbs and vegetables she’s just harvested before they hang bushes of rosemary and sage up from the kitchen ceiling to dry.

Even after all these years, James adores her, he realises as he watches her work, a smile on her face as she’s backlit by the summer sun pouring in through the window. She’s sharp, witty, and dangerous, but he feels more himself with her than with any other person. While she might be a master of navigating masks and laden comments, she is equally talented at tearing them down and demanding total honesty. He simply isn’t _allowed_ to put up a front and be anyone but himself around her, and for that he will be eternally grateful. Without her, it probably would’ve taken him several more years before he’d sought out therapy. He wonders what would happen if he put John in a room with her.

“And how’s the plans for parliament?”

“Oh, of all the topics you could’ve chosen – can’t we talk about sex, or something? I’ve had it to here with thinking about crusty old men who are dying to put their wigs on again and wax poetic about the good old Empire days.”

James snorts. “Yes, but I’m much more invested in your career than my sex life.”

Miranda laughs at that. “That’s not a good sign,” she tells him teasingly. “Oh, fine. Parliament is… difficult. I think it’s good I waited this long to make my move, though, much as I think I probably could’ve managed it a lot sooner.”

James hums, encouraging her to continue as he hands her another bushel of herbs to hang up. “How’s that?”

“Well, they’re still talking.”

James feels his jaw slack at that. “About _us_? _Still?_ ”

She nods, a wry smile on her face. “Not during the debating sessions of course, and I’ve never caught snippets of any incriminating conversations. But the looks they cast when I walk past in the corridors are more than telling.”

“Funny how their memory serves them much better when it comes to another person’s scandal than when it comes to what could’ve possibly happened to their tax returns,” James grits, but Miranda laughs, placing a placating hand on his cheek to cup his face.

“I take it as a good sign,” she tells him with a glint in her eye. “It means I have enough potential for them to fear me. They’re looking for excuses to tear me down and kick me out before I fully root myself in the House of Commons.”

“They won’t succeed.”

“Of course not,” she agrees. “Have I ever been bullied out of anything?”

James grins at that. “No, I suspect you have never budged for a man in your life.” His expression falters then. “But politicians are ruthless, Miranda,” he tells her. “Not to mention rich. Their means are endless, as is their hunger for power. They _will_ keep trying.”

“Then I won’t give them fodder to shoot me down with.”

He huffs. “You’d better not,” he tells her. “I know how tempting you find it, but you’re so close. I will not let you sabotage this.”

“You know, it’s very endearing that you’re this invested in my career.”

“Oh, this isn’t just about you,” he replies, and she bursts out laughing. “You’re going to burn the Houses of Parliament down from the inside out, and I want to see it happen.”

“I’m not going to be able to reform the entire country, James.”

“Not with that attitude, you won’t.”

They joke and bicker the afternoon away, and James feels himself breathing easier with each passing minute. What he has with John makes him happy, but there is also a lot newfound excitement as well as a lot of tension still in the air. James is aware that while they are both slowly letting their guard down with each other, neither of them seem quite ready to fully commit as of yet. John might have said he was, that driving down to the coast to demand an explanation was clearly a sign of this, but James isn’t so sure yet. The man still feels ready to bolt at any second. Perhaps it won’t be James’ trauma that ends up chasing him away, but it’ll be _something_. He sighs. Maybe he was a bit quick to force John to hang out with his friends.

As for himself… There is still plenty to weigh James down into the past, making it near impossible to fully commit to something new like this. There’s the PTSD, as well as his memories of Thomas. Part of him sometimes fears that he shouldn’t be clinging onto Miranda either, since she’s a part of that past. Naturally, those thoughts wrack him with guilt, but Miranda sees through him when he falls quiet, reassures him firmly, tells him to fucking air his grievances again in therapy. _Intrusive thoughts_ , she calls it. She also declares those thoughts to be bullshit, but that’s neither here nor there. His therapist just uses a nicer word for it, but it boils down to the same thing.

When he returns home, Hal is waiting for him, and James shakes his head with a huffed laugh at the sight. It strikes him that people incapable of giving him even one solitary minute during the day. On the one hand, at this point he is _craving_ some fucking peace and quiet, but on the other hand, it’s just a little endearing. He can’t help but admit that he’s got some good friends.

“I brought beer,” Hal says, lifting a sixpack. “Peace offering, for showing up unannounced.”

They climb the stairs together, and James toes off his shoes at the top before sinking down on the couch with a groan. “You mind opening the fridge and pulling out last night’s dinner?” he calls back.

“Microwave it?”

“Nuke the fuck out of it,” James confirms. “Should be enough for both of us.”

“Long day, eh,” Hal says once he joins James with two steaming plates. James hums in agreement.

“Work, Miranda, the whole shebang,” he says.

“And your man leaving.”

“Yes,” James agrees with a roll of his eyes, “‘my man’ leaving.”

They watch tv together as they eat. Hal is a big fan of _Flog It_ , which James has no qualms with. It’s soothing to see different variations of the same story – _oh, this item was passed down in the family, I bought it at a car boot sale, it’s been in a drawer, someone else deserves to fully enjoy it_. The injected bits of history are fun, too.

“So when are you dropping by the vet centre again?” Hal asks at some point as a silver-plated snuff box is auctioned off on-screen. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” James agrees a little guiltily. “Sorry, mate.”

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” Hal tells him. “I accepted that I must be number two in your life a long time ago.”

“Oh come on,” James laughs. “What have I prioritised over you?”

“Your career,” Hal points out, and okay, maybe he’s got a point. “Your missus’ career. Thomas – though that one I would never blame you for.”

“Thank you,” James replies with a playful roll of his eyes, not bothering to correct Hal on the fact that he and Miranda were never married. “Glad to see you _do_ want to hold me putting my career first against me. Hal, you’ve been where I was.”

“Yes, so I know the Navy is an ungrateful bitch of a mistress.”

It’s three beers later when Hal finally heads home, and James feels pleasantly buzzed. He quickly takes a shower to wash off the grime and sweat of the day, and when he’s feeling refreshed again, he makes his way over to the bed, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips.

And much as he’s happy to finally have the peace and quiet he’d been craving, it’s also… a little _too_ quiet. The memory of John sprawled on top of him is still engrained in his mind. Sure, it had been uncomfortable, but it had also been about a decade since _anyone_ had been sprawled out on top of him, since he’d been pinned down by that weight and warmth. He’d shared a bed with Miranda after Thomas, but she’s more the type shuffle to the edge of the bed, where there is space and no stifling body heat. James has _missed_ that weight, and the thought of not having it again tonight makes him feel just a little put out.

He pulls out his phone, idly fiddling with it as he thinks. He’s not sure what he wants to do, but he suspects it has to do with messaging John.

_@captainflint: Hey, how much do you weigh?_

_@longsilver: glad to see your concern. I made it home fine, thanks for asking_

_@captainflint: I’ve been working all day, cut me some slack._

_@longsilver: …yeah alright_

_@longsilver: with leg or without?_

_@captainflint: what_

_@longsilver: the weight_

_@captainflint: Oh. Right. Without, I suppose_

_@longsilver: you bastard_

_@captainflint: What did I do?_

_@longsilver: do you have ANY idea how hard it is for me to balance on the scales on one leg_

_@captainflint: Not my problem. Less typing, more weighing_

_@longsilver: what the FUCK do you want my weight for_

_@captainflint: …You know what, now that you ask, honestly no clue_

_@longsilver: spectacular. fell on my ass for nothing_

_@longsilver: it’s 75kg btw_

_@captainflint: Really?? Without the leg?_

_@longsilver: solid muscle babey_

James snorts. 75kg of ‘solid muscle’ weighed him down. That’s quite surprising. God, he wishes he could recreate it. Sadly he doesn’t have anything heavy enough.

_@captainflint: You should come back_

_@longsilver: …im scared, what do you need my weight for_

_@captainflint: None of your business_

He’s not about to admit that getting crushed when cuddling in bed was in fact rather soothing. He’d never hear the end of it.

_@captainflint: You off to work?_

_@longsilver: you kidding? i’d DIE. i’m going for a much deserved early night_

_@captainflint: Right. I should let you sleep_

_@longsilver: hey_

_@captainflint: Yeah?_

_@longsilver: it was nice, being over_

_@longsilver: but uhh next time don’t force my hand to come seek you out, just fucking talk to me_

James sighs, scratching his stubble idly. Yeah, he supposes John has a point. But things are still in their early stages. He’s not a hundred percent sure if the guy can handle him with all his fears, no matter how many nightmares and trigger episodes John carries him through. And really, he shouldn’t expect the guy to. He shouldn’t expect _anything_ serious from this. Not yet. God, he feels like every day he asks too much of John.

Just because he has issues doing anything casually. He really needs to learn how to just… _relax_. Have fun. Enjoy the ride, however brief it may be. Whether it be about John or relationships or fucking film choices.

 _Oh._ Now there’s an idea.

_@captainflint: Yeah, I’ll try._

_@captainflint: Hey, I know you said you were going for an early night but_

_@longsilver: miss me already, captain?_

_@captainflint: Smug bastard. It’s just quiet okay_

_@captainflint: I was going to ask if you want to do a watch party?_

It takes a few minutes before James gets an answer, and he holds his breath in anticipation, but then the three dots finally move again, indicating John is typing.

_@longsilver: as tempting as that is, im fucking knackered **😢**_

_@captainflint: What the fuck is that_

_@longsilver: i KNOW youre not this old flint, let me have my emojis_

_@captainflint: Whatever helps you talk about your emotions, I suppose_

_@longsilver: oh my GOD_

_@longsilver: i have been MURDERED_

_@longsilver: 999 id like to report a HOMICIDE_

_@longsilver: crime of passion_

_@longsilver: motive: boyfriend didnt wanna watch netflix_

James laughs as he rolls his eyes, but his mind lingers on that one little word. _Boyfriend_. A little juvenile? Maybe. But really, John and he are just not quite _partners_. Definitely not lovers; the word _love_ seems far too strong to use for them yet.

Perhaps this _can_ be such a relationship – one that builds slowly, not in burning passion that encompasses his life and consumes his soul until the day he dies. He’s had one of those, and one was enough. But love comes in so many different forms. Perhaps it’s time he gives this one a proper shot.

_@captainflint: In my defence, your Honour, I’m a lonely old man_

_@captainflint: Also, the boyfriend is EXCEEDINGLY hot_

_@longsilver: alskdfjdshahds_

_@captainflint: Did you have a stroke_

_@longsilver: you know what i think i mightve_

_@captainflint: Go to bed, Silver_

_@longsilver: but what about our watch party?? i fear for my life_

_@captainflint: I already murdered you, remember?_

_@captainflint: We can do a watch party any time. Just yell when you’re not going in for a night shift and we’ll watch something then_

_@longsilver: deal ❤_

* * *

Things progress a little more slowly from then on. The morning calls become more staggered, and if Silver notices, he doesn’t comment on it, giving James the impression that he doesn’t mind too much, which suits him just fine.

Okay, fine, it takes a tremendous amount of restraint, but if there’s anything James should be capable of, it’s a little bit of discipline. He was in the military, for fuck’s sake. But then, it’s always been hard for him to control his emotions. They seem to run hotter than that of the average person. Miranda tells him it’s his ADHD, to which James tells her to politely stuff it.

They do have their long-distance film night. Silver chooses _Mamma Mia!_ of all films, which James has never seen but instantly falls in love with. Apparently, it was Max who introduced John to it, which seems even more baffling. When James tells Hal about it the next day, it turns out it’s also an guilty pleasure of Hal’s, and really, does James even know any of the people in his life?

“Listen, it’s impossible to deny the power of ABBA,” Miranda says as they’re kneeling in her vegetable garden together again another few days later. James groans.

“Not you too.”

“And now you too,” she points out. “Like I said, none of us can escape it.”

Weeks pass, and with it, the summer season slowly approaches its end. As August progresses, Jack has to return to Brighton. James always mourns the man’s leaving, even though they’re not the closest of friends. He just provides an element of levity and wit that is unique in its nature. His absence also causes Charles to grow a little more sullen, which is frankly a damn shame. The man isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine as is.

Silver doesn’t visit again, and James wonders what holds him back. Maybe he thinks James needs to properly invite him for once, or maybe he thinks it’s James’ turn to come visit him. Maybe it’s stubbornness, or pride.

Or maybe he’s scared. The last time, he had to deal with James’ night terrors in person. It was definitely a step up from what they were used to until then, and it’s definitely not the _budding relationship_ kind of stuff.

“Stop that, you’re giving yourself an aneurysm,” Miranda tells him. “Just invite him over and have it over with.”

“But what if he –”

“At this point, James, I’m starting to suspect _you_ are the one who’s scared,” she says, the corner of her mouth curling up. She gets up from her knees and wipes her hands on her jeans before tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’s come over to James’ this time, not for a social visit – though it always turns into one – but to take a look at his leaky sink.

She looks beautiful like this, James thinks as he looks at her. Miranda cleans up wonderfully, with a sense of fashion falling somewhere near the elegant yet modern politician’s wife, though perhaps slightly more daring than most people would find appropriate for both her age and station. But when her walls are down and she can move in spaces where all sense of pretence is null and void – in other words, when she’s around James – she relaxes, trading summer dresses, pantsuits, and colourful blazers for faded jeans, corduroy, and plaid shirts tied around her waist. Her elegant and intricate hairdos are replaced by loose knots, spilling strands of hair everywhere. She currently also has a streak of sink grease on her cheek, which James is decidedly not commenting on until she has to leave. It is this version of hers that James once fell in love with, and one he would still choose to capture in a painting if he could.

“I hadn’t really thought of that,” he admits. Miranda snorts.

“You should ask your therapist about it,” she tells him.

“I’m not seeing her until next week.”

“Well, tough. The time of me providing you with romantic counsel is long past.”

“But you were always so good at it!”

“Only because you and Thomas had a word for everything except the most elusive of feelings, and I had to pull your heads out of each other’s asses –”

“Literally –”

“– and get you to understand and acknowledge what was happening between us all. Yes, thank you for that reminder.”

“Don’t act like you minded.”

Miranda shakes her head a little, and another lock of hair goes spilling down her neck. James smiles at the sight. “Do you look at him like that?”

“Like what?” he asks, feeling a little like he’s been caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Miranda rolls her eyes as she starts packing up her toolkit. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, would I? Haven’t seen him in person in weeks.”

“Then fucking do something about it already.”

James mock-gasps at the profanity, in a way so reminiscent of how Thomas used to, it almost aches for a moment. But Miranda bursts into laughter, and it helps easy the memory just a little. He helps her up on her feet then, and she wipes her hands on her clothes, staining them with grease.

“In all seriousness though, James…” She meets his gaze with something that somehow both holds warmth and the steely resolve that runs through her blood. “You are allowed to have this again.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Well, make up your mind. Because as proud as I am of you for slamming on the brakes, if you don’t figure out where you want to go, he’s going to remain your boy toy forever.”

“Oh, fuck that,” James exclaims, affronted. They walk to his front door together. “I’m too old to be stuck with a boy toy.” _Not to mention how unfair that would be on John_ , he thinks. He lets out a groan. “Whatever. I’ll talk to my therapist and figure shit out.”

“Talk to John too,” Miranda calls out as she descends to the beach. James sticks out his tongue, just because he can. He also doesn’t inform her of the grease on her face.


End file.
